by Jan Drexler
He left, pulling the door closed behind him. The horse whinnied and the wagon wheels squealed in the frosty air, and then he was gone.
Hannah went to the bedroom door. Daed and Mamm held each other in their weeping while silent tears dripped from her cheeks. She wiped them away and closed the door. The sky outside the kitchen window was turning a pale pink. Morning would be here soon and the children would be hungry.
Numb, she opened the trap door to the cellar and, taking the lamp from the table, went down the ladder to the larder. Mamm had cooked cornmeal yesterday, and the mush was waiting. A solid loaf ready to be sliced for the family’s breakfast. Hannah took it and climbed back up the ladder, one rung at a time. The trap door opening loomed above her. Would she ever reach the top of the ladder?
She set the lamp and loaf pan on the table, her hands trembling so that she nearly dropped them. Here, in the kitchen, she could hear Mamm’s sobs through the closed door. The tears streamed faster, blurring her vision.
A sudden memory washed over her. Nine-year-old Hannah, huddled in her bed upstairs, alone. Just as she was now. Daed in the cemetery with Jacob. He had taken two shovels for them to dig the graves. And Mamm in her bedroom with Liesbet, kneeling by the bedside.
Hannah had gotten out of her bed, shaky from the fever, and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. She saw Mamm through the bedroom door and Liesbet on the bed, lying so still. She had looked into the parlor, and there, on a platform made of sawhorses and boards, were three small forms. The biggest one was Hansli, then Fanny, and last of all, little Catherine, wrapped in a shawl.
And death. A shadowy presence in the room then and filling the house now. Death. She had been the one to bring it in. And she had to face it alone.
Just like this morning. She couldn’t fight death. She could only stand aside and let it have its way. Let it take whomever it wanted.
If only . . . if only Liesbet had listened to her when she told her to leave George McIvey alone. If only she had done something, anything, to keep them apart. If only she had told Daed sooner . . . But she hadn’t wanted to believe it could be true that her sister would go with an outsider.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Jacob came into the kitchen, rubbing his hands through his hair and yawning.
“What is William doing, sleeping in my bed? I nearly rolled on top of him.”
“Shh.” Hannah hushed him. “I put him with you. It’s the only place I could think of . . .”
Jacob stopped and leaned toward her. He lifted her chin with his finger. “You’re crying.” He looked toward the bedroom. “What has happened?”
“Ach, Jacob . . .” Her tears overcame her. Jacob sat next to her and took her in his arms. He patted her shoulders and rubbed her back as she related the night’s events.
“And you’re sitting out here alone?”
Hannah nodded.
“And Mamm and Daed, in their room?” She nodded again and he held her close to him. She had never noticed how strong his arms had become. “We can’t let this happen again, Hannah.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the little ones died, you and I, Liesbet, Mamm and Daed, we all grieved alone. And look what that did to Mamm. Look what it did to you. And look what it did to Liesbet. It tore our family apart.” He released her and she drew back, wiping her cheeks again. “I won’t let that happen again. We’re a family, and we’re going to face this together.”
Jacob rose and opened the door of the bedroom. He hesitated, and then went in. He lifted Daed up by the arm, and together they helped Mamm to her feet. He led them back to the kitchen, closing the door behind them. Daed took all three of them into his embrace. Hannah could feel Mamm’s arms around her, holding her close. Jacob stood behind her, his head leaning on hers. They were together. A family. Together in their sorrow.
32
Josef woke one morning and felt like he had enough energy to move his legs for the first time in days. Mary Nafsinger opened his door, a bowl in her hand.
“Josef, you’re awake.”
“It feels like I’ve slept the winter away.” He scooted into a sitting position, leaning against the head of the bed, and reached for the bowl of porridge. It smelled wonderful. “How many days have I been sick?”
“You arrived last Friday, and today is Thursday. Nearly a week.”
He tasted a spoonful of the porridge. Mary had sweetened it with maple syrup, and suddenly he was starving. He scooped up another spoonful.
“Eat slowly. You don’t want to put too much in your stomach at first.” Mary straightened his covers and patted his knee. “I’ll be in the next room, so don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”
“Ja, for sure.” Josef took another bite of the porridge, savoring the sweet flavor.
He had been in bed for nearly a week? He remembered Mary and Daniel coming in and out of the room, feeding him meals he didn’t want and talking about things he didn’t care about. Nothing had interested him. But today the thoughts running through his mind lingered, and he found that he was interested.
One of the thoughts was Hannah. Had she come to visit him, or was that only a dream? He set the half-empty bowl of porridge on the bedside table, suddenly tired again. He got up to use the chamber pot, but by the time he sat back down on the bed, he was exhausted. As he lay down, feeling for the covers with his feet, he pushed away thoughts of Hannah. She was lost to him. He would never see her again.
He closed his eyes, letting sleep take over. At least when he slept, he didn’t think of her.
Two days later, Josef felt strong enough to get dressed and join Daniel in the barn. The big old place seemed empty without the pigs Daniel usually kept in the far pen, and no sheep. Even the chickens were fewer, with only a half dozen pecking through the bedding around the horses’ stalls.
“It’s good to see you up and around.” Daniel leaned on his pitchfork as Josef opened the barn door.
“It feels good too.” Josef sat down on a stool near Daniel’s workbench. The short walk from the house had been tiring. He gazed around the barn, taking in the tools hanging on the walls, harnesses, the old farm wagon, the grain bins . . .
“How much of all this will you be taking to Ohio?”
Daniel followed his gaze. “Only the horses and harnesses. The rest is staying here. We sold nearly everything along with the farm. It will be easier to make new when we get to Ohio, and we won’t need most of the farming equipment.”
“What will you do without it? How will you work?”
“I’ll be working with my oldest son, and he has all the implements we need.” Daniel finished cleaning one stall and moved to the next. “Were you serious about coming to Ohio with us instead of Indiana?”
Josef nodded. “Ja.”
“You’re changing all your plans?” Daniel peered at him.
Josef knew the older man was trying to read his expression in the dim light. “Things are over between Hannah and me, and I don’t want to live in the same area as her family. You can understand that, ja?”
“What I don’t understand is what happened to make you change your mind.”
Josef dug his heel into the straw-covered dirt. He didn’t want to relive that memory again. “Hannah’s sister married an outsider.”
“Ja, you told us that.”
“But then Hannah and her mother went to visit Liesbet, against Christian’s wishes.” He held Daniel’s gaze with his own. He was in the right. No Amish minister would disagree with him.
“Did you ask them why?”
“Of course. Hannah said they wanted to see Liesbet one last time before they went west.” He dug with his heel in the dirt some more. “They disobeyed her vater, which is the same as if they went against the bann. I can’t marry someone who takes discipline so lightly.”
Daniel moved an empty keg nearer to the bench and sat, facing him. “Let me ask you, what is the purpose of the bann?”
“To shame the person who has comm
itted a sin and to separate the sin from the church, ja?”
“Not exactly. If it was only that, what good would it do?”
Josef couldn’t answer. What good could ever come from shunning?
“The purpose of the bann is to cause the guilty person to see their own sin as shameful, and then to turn back to the Lord in repentance.” Daniel smoothed his beard as he spoke. “It also exists for the protection of the church, that willful sinners within the body would not cause God to censure it. When Christian’s daughter married an outsider, she willfully sinned against God, her family, and if she had been baptized, the church.”
“Would someone like Liesbet ever come back to the faith? I saw her. There was no sign of repentance in her.”
“What did Hannah and Annalise do when they visited her?”
“They took her some food, and some clothes.”
“A mission of mercy, then.”
Josef shifted on the bench. “Ja, I suppose you could call it that.”
“Christ commands us to have mercy on our brethren and to help anyone who is in need, even our bitterest enemy. By showing mercy to her sister, Hannah was following our Lord’s commands.”
“But the bann disallows eating with such people or having any dealings with them.”
“Was there any evidence that what Hannah and Annalise did was anything more than a short visit to supply the girl with needed items?”
Josef shook his head.
“And how are we to know that her act of mercy didn’t soften her sister’s heart? Perhaps the Lord is bringing her back to her family even now.”
Josef smoothed the dirt he had been digging at with his foot. “I need to apologize to Hannah.”
Daniel laid his hand on Josef’s shoulder. “Ja, and pray for Liesbet. Pray that she will come to repentance and restoration to the Lord.” He rose from his seat. “It is dinnertime. Are you coming in?”
“In a few minutes.”
The older man left him alone in the barn. In the dim silence, small sounds became noticeable. The whoosh of a horse’s breath, the scratching of the hens, the drip of water from the roof. The weather had turned while he had been in bed. Spring was coming, and along with it, the move west.
He must apologize to Hannah. Would she accept him back?
The dream of the farm in the forests of Indiana with Hannah by his side came rushing back from the place he had tried to hide it. Ja, the path was clear. Ja, he knew what he wanted, and the future, with Hannah, would be one to look forward to.
But only if Hannah would forgive him.
Hannah sat next to Liesbet’s grave, smoothing the mound of newly turned earth. For so many years, she couldn’t understand Mamm’s obsession with this place, with visiting the little ones’ graves, but now she was spellbound by the peaceful quiet. It was a balm to her empty heart. Losing Adam was difficult to bear, but he was pursuing his dreams. Losing Josef—her mouth quivered. She didn’t know she would miss him so.
And Liesbet. Poor Liesbet.
Her sister had been buried quietly. The Hertzlers brought dinner, but only Mamm, Daed, and the children had attended the burial. Liesbet had died while unrepentant and living in sin. The congregation’s elder had offered comforting words, and their family had been together. Liesbet’s death had united them as a family in a way nothing else would have.
She rose from the grass and sat on the low stone wall surrounding the little cemetery. They would be leaving for Indiana in a week. No one would care for Liesbet’s grave. Did it matter? Her body was in the grave, but her soul . . . her soul was in God’s hands.
A sound behind her made her turn. Josef stood, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked pale and tired.
“Hannah.” He nodded to her, then made his way over the low stone wall and sat next to her. He straightened his coat, and then his hat, but didn’t look at her. He stared at the new grave.
“Josef.” She returned his greeting. She hadn’t seen him since he had left her at the side of the road outside Lancaster.
“I stopped by the house. Your vater told me what happened.”
She had no answer for him.
“I came to tell you . . . to ask for your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness for what?”
He turned to look at her then, and reached over to take her hand. “I ask you to forgive me for being so judgmental. I didn’t take the time to ask what you were doing in Lancaster that day, but assumed you were in the wrong.”
She nodded, looking at the new grass along the stone wall. Spring had come while she had been in the depths of her grief. Had she and Mamm been wrong to seek out Liesbet that day? If they hadn’t, would George have thought to bring her home for her final suffering?
“It has taken you a long time to come home.”
“I was ill.”
Hannah forgot everything she might have said. “What kind of illness?”
“I made it to the Nafsingers that day when I last saw you, but fell ill that night. Mary Nafsinger called it influenza.”
“Influenza? That’s a dangerous disease.” Hannah leaned forward to search his face for lingering effects. “You will have to be careful and not work too hard. If it comes on you again, it will be worse than before.”
Josef smiled. A tired smile on his narrow face. She hadn’t noticed how sunken his cheeks were. “I’ll be careful.” He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “You haven’t answered my question. Will you forgive me?”
“Are you sure you’re the one who needs to be forgiven? Wasn’t I the one who had disobeyed Daed?”
He fixed his gaze on her hand. “I had a talk with Daniel, and he showed me I was wrong in being angry with you. And now I find I was more wrong than I thought. Liesbet needed you and her family. Who knows? Perhaps she did repent before it was too late.”
“I think she did. She asked for Mamm to forgive her before she . . . before she died. If she could ask Mamm, she could surely ask our Lord, couldn’t she?”
Josef let go of her hand and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. “Have you heard anything from her husband?”
Hannah shook her head, and then let it rest on his shoulder. His arm was so comforting. “Not since that night. We don’t know where he went, or what he’s doing.”
“He is in God’s hands though, ja?”
“Ja.” She rubbed the edge of his coat between her fingers. A good, broadcloth coat, made to last many seasons, but beginning to wear at the edges. Who would make him a new one when the time came? “The last time I saw you,” she sat up, away from his embrace, “you said you didn’t think we were suited for one another after all. Have you changed your mind again?”
“I was wrong to say that, Hannah. I was angry . . . and self-righteous . . . and disappointed. I should have trusted you.”
She looked across the cemetery to where the Conestoga flowed. Even from here, the sound of its springtime laughter carried on the breeze. Its restlessness pulled at her, tugging at her to follow it to the west. Toward the river, across the mountains, to a future home in the wilderness of Indiana.
“Ja, Josef Bender. I forgive you.” She turned to smile at him and he took her hand again.
“Denki. I hope I never do something so foolish and need your forgiveness again.”
“Never is a long time. We will most likely need to forgive each other quite a few times before we reach the end.”
“The end of what?”
“The end of our road together.”
He put his arm around her and pulled her close, resting his chin on her kapp. “And that is going to be a long, long road.”
33
Josef ran his hand over the board he was sanding. Smooth as silk. The ash Christian had chosen for the toolbox was well seasoned and fine grained. Christian had taken it from the stacks of lumber left from the days when his father had a lively wagon-building business years ago.
Across the main room of the barn, Christian and Jacob were inst
alling the wagon bows. They grunted as they wrestled the long oak staves, dripping and hot from being steamed for more than an hour, and turned them into the U-shape needed to hold the wagon cover. Josef ached to help them, but his muscles were still too weak from his illness.
“Take the jobs that require the small tools and the fine work,” Christian had said. “We don’t want you wearing yourself out. We need your strength on the trail.”
So Josef sat, sanding small boards, building the toolbox, the lazy seat, barrels, and other small pieces that would be attached to the wagon at the last minute.
The big wagon was impressive. Josef thrilled to watch the pieces come together. Sixteen feet long, with a bowed bottom and high sides, the Conestoga wagons were unlike anything Josef had ever seen before. They looked more like ships than the farm wagons he was accustomed to.
As the last bow was set into place, Josef left his work and joined Jacob and Christian to admire the new wagon.
“It’s beautiful.”
Christian grinned at him as he wiped the sweat off his face with a rag. “She is, isn’t she?” He ran his hand along the side with a loving sweep. “My daed and I built many wagons just like this when I was a boy. I never thought I’d make one this big for myself.”
Christian walked around the wagon, testing each of the new bows.
“The other wagon,” Josef said, walking over to the smaller, green one off to the side, “did you make this one, also?”
“It was the last one Daed made. I helped with a lot of the heavier work, but you can see here—” Christian walked over and pointed underneath the wagon—“his work. He had a unique way of building the undercarriage so the axles always ran smooth and rarely broke. I used the same technique on the new one.” He patted the smaller wagon with loving hands. “She’s been a good wagon.”
“Why didn’t you paint both of them the same?”
“I thought about painting it green, to match the smaller one, but Annalise likes the traditional blue. So I painted it to please her.” Christian turned to Josef, his eyes moist as they had been lately whenever he spoke of his wife. “We should be getting in. I’m sure supper is ready, and we need to clean up.”