The Rescued (13 page)

“That's just what I'm saying.” Grossmammi shook her head, apparently at Judith's stupidity. “I always thought it was Fred showing he was sweet on you that woke Isaac up. There's nothing like a little competition to make a man see what he
wants. Isaac realized he'd best get moving if he didn't want to watch you marrying someone else.”

“He wouldn't have . . . I mean . . .” Judith stumbled to a stop, knowing her cheeks were scarlet. “Isaac was always the only man for me. Fred just likes to flirt. There's never been a reason for Isaac to be jealous of him.”

Until now.
The words slid into her mind and lodged there. Isaac did have a reason now, but it wasn't because of her. It was because of Joseph. And how they were ever going to resolve this tangle they'd gotten into, she didn't know.

“Well, at least Isaac didn't let foolish pride keep him from accepting the generator.” Grossmammi seemed to feel she'd embarrassed Judith enough.

“He couldn't do that. Without the generator we'd have lost the contract with the dairy.” She still felt a little sick at the thought of how close they'd come. “Isaac's Onkel Simon would have helped, of course, but Isaac didn't want to ask him. After all, his uncle has his own sons to help.”

Grossmammi looked as if a tart remark hovered on her tongue, but she held it back. Instead she accepted the mug of tea Judith held out and settled herself at the kitchen table, sniffing appreciatively as the aroma of the pies began to fill the air.

“You'll have to hold those boys off with a stick if you don't want them eating up the pies before supper,” she said.

“I'll do that,” Judith promised, putting a couple of wedges of shoofly pie on the table before sitting down opposite her grandmother.

Thank goodness Grossmammi had dropped the subject of Isaac's attitude toward Fred Yoder. She couldn't possibly be right about it. And it was ridiculous for Judith to feel even the
smallest pleasure at the thought that Isaac might actually have been jealous.

Grossmammi nodded toward the study desk that took up the corner of the kitchen. “Have you learned anything more about Mattie Lapp since we talked about her?”

“I've been reading the letters between Mattie and her cousins.” Judith's thoughts slipped back to the 1950s and the story Mattie had to tell. “It's funny that they didn't really live that far apart—just at opposite ends of the county, as far as I can tell. But they didn't see each other much, so they started the Round Robin letters to stay in touch.”

Her grandmother nodded. “That sounds about right. You have to understand that the Leit didn't travel as much then as now. When I was growing up, I can think of only one time when my family hired a driver to take us someplace, and that was to a funeral.”

“Do you remember anything about the school troubles? Mattie was going through such pain over that problem, but the whole issue seems so far away and strange to me now.”

“That's because we've had our own schools ever since you can remember.” Grossmammi stirred her tea slowly, seeming lost in thought. “I wasn't the right age to be affected myself. I do recall how worried and upset my parents were for a time. Mattie had several young ones, didn't she?”

Judith nodded, seeming to see Mattie's sloping, rounded handwriting in her mind's eye. “Her daughter Rachel was just at the age to be affected. It must have been terrible to feel as if the whole weight of Englisch law was against you. We've had it easy in comparison.”

“Maybe so.” Her grandmother's face was solemn. “But it
seems to me that folks value things more when they have to struggle to keep them. If ever the Amish get so that they can live comfortably with the Englisch, I fear that will mean that we have adopted so much of the world that we're no longer Amish.”

“Do you really think there's a danger of that happening?”

The idea sent a shiver down Judith's spine. Who would they be if they weren't Amish? And was she doing wrong for Joseph to encourage him in his plans—plans that might take him further away from his roots? Not that she was encouraging him, exactly, was she?

“You're worrying about something,” Grossmammi said, her voice gentle but her gaze as shrewd as ever. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She did. She couldn't.

Finally she sighed. “It's just that Joseph wants—well, he seems to want different things for his life. And Isaac doesn't understand.”

“I thought that Isaac had agreed to Joseph taking a class at the vocational school. That's what Barbie said.”

“He did agree, after a lot of hasty words back and forth between them.” She had to tread carefully, no matter how much she might want her grandmother's wisdom. She couldn't betray all of Joseph's dreams. “But Isaac only went along with it because he doesn't take it seriously. He thinks Joseph will get tired of the class.”

Or that even if he didn't, Joseph was only doing it because the knowledge would help him run the dairy farm.

“You don't think so?”

“I . . . don't know.”

If only she could share all the things that worried her with
her grandmother. But she couldn't. She was caught by a promise she should never have made. But still, if she were back in that situation again, with Joseph looking at her with such pleading in his eyes, would she be able to do anything different?

“It's . . . odd.” Judith stumbled over the words. They were so inadequate. “I mean, there was Mattie risking prosecution to keep her daughter from being forced into more schooling. And now Joseph is driving his brother crazy with wanting it.”

Grossmammi seemed to consider for a moment, her face bearing the marks left by a lifetime of facing problems and dealing with struggle, yet still serene. “Maybe it's not so different after all,” she said finally. “For the Leit, what it means to live separate from the world may change with time and circumstance. But remember why our people fled Europe for America in the first place—so that we would have the right to choose how we live.”

Her grandmother was right, of course. To be Amish was to live separate, obeying God's laws. Each time they clashed with the outside world that was the decision they had to make.

But in this case it wasn't the outside world that threatened. It was the terrible chasm between what Joseph wanted and what Isaac wanted for him. And there didn't seem to be any clear-cut answer to that dilemma.

Lancaster County, September 3, 1953

M
attie
had arisen early after a mostly sleepless night, but even so, Adam arrived at the barn before her. She saw the glow from the door and stepped outside, wrapping a sweater around herself against the chill.

When she walked in, Adam was about to finish milking the cows. He gave her a long look by the light of the lantern.

“No sleep last night?” He straightened, removing the milking stool while the cow stood patiently.

“Not much,” she admitted. “Denke, Adam. I could have done the milking this morning.”

“I know. And you could also get the kinder off to school today without any help. But you don't have to.”

Mattie took the two cows by their halters to turn them into the pasture while Adam picked up the pails of milk. She ought to insist she could manage alone, but the truth was that she didn't want to. She was glad of his company on a critical morning like this one.

As they walked back to the house together, she could feel his gaze on her face. Could see the question in his eyes before he asked it.

“Have you decided what you'll do when the bus comes for Rachel?”

She longed to have a definite answer. If only her mind would stop its eternal dithering and settle on the right response. She shook her head.

“I wanted to talk it over with Rachel last night, but I couldn't seem to get the words out. And she didn't ask, either. So we ended up just hugging each other.”

“Maybe that was what you both needed, ain't so?”

“Maybe.” But Mattie couldn't excuse herself so readily. “But I think my own fear strangled me when I tried to bring it up.”

Adam shook his head gravely. “You are being too hard on yourself, Mattie. Whatever you decide, it will be right for you and for Rachel. And we are all standing beside you, no matter what.”

The kinder came rushing to greet Adam just then, sparing her the difficulty of finding a response. Nate and Toby were jumping up and down with the excitement of starting back to school, but little Anna was pouting a bit, most likely because she didn't get to attend.

As usual, Adam seemed to understand what everyone felt. He calmed the boys and then picked up Anna. “So, while the boys are in school, you get to have Mammi all to yourself. What are you going to do?”

She clung to the pout a second longer and then grinned. “Mammi says I can help her bake cookies. And lick the spoon all by myself.”

“That sounds like a very gut day, ain't so?” He glanced
around. “I think breakfast is on the table. Is there enough oatmeal for me?”

“Always,” Mattie said. “I'll get it.”

“No need.” He took the wooden spoon from her hand. “Rachel not down yet?”

Her tension mounted. “She was here a minute ago. I'd best check on her.” She still wasn't sure whether Rachel would get on the bus.

As Mattie walked into the living room, she spotted Rachel standing on the front porch, hands grasping the railing. Her head was bowed. Was she praying?

Mattie's breath caught in her throat, and she went quickly to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. For a moment Rachel didn't move. Then she turned to face her mother, seeming to force a smile she probably didn't feel.

“Mammi, I'm ready to go to the new school. I can do it. It just means putting off my dreams for another year. It will be all right.” Rachel had an air of gravity that made her seem older than her years, but her voice trembled on the last few words.

What was the right thing to say? Mattie sent up a silent prayer for guidance.
Give me the words, Lord. Please.

“I don't think you mean that, my Rachel.” She drew closer, longing to ease the pain she knew her child felt.

“Ja, ja, I do.” Rachel blinked rapidly, but she couldn't keep the tears from forming in her eyes.

“My sweet girl.” Mattie cradled Rachel's cheek with her hand. “I can see you don't want to go.”

Rachel met her gaze for another moment, and then her lashes swept down. A single tear found its way onto her cheek. “No. But I don't want you to be in trouble with the law, either.”

“What has happened is not your fault,” Mattie said, finding the strength to speak calmly. “If we are in this situation, it must be because God wants us to be here.”

“But why?” Rachel cried. “What could God want us to do?”

Mattie sucked in a breath, praying she was saying what she should. “What do you think God wants of us?”

Behind her, she could hear the door open quietly, could hear Adam's footsteps as he came up to her.

Her daughter's smooth forehead wrinkled in thought. “Daadi always said that our family came to America so we could be free to live as God wants.”

So in this time of trial, Rachel was turning to what she'd learned from her father. The thought touched her heart.

Rachel gave a short nod, as if she'd decided. “I think if that freedom is threatened, God would want us to stand up for it.”

Mattie's throat tightened. Her daughter was holding a mirror up to her, making her see herself clearly. The time was long past when she could let others make decisions for her. Now it was up to her.

Rachel turned, staring toward the road. In another instant, Mattie heard the sound as well. The bus was coming. The moment was here, and she felt confidence flooding through her, washing over the fear. Mattie put her arm around Rachel's waist, holding her close.

“It's all right. We are together.”

The yellow bus lumbered into view. It stopped at the end of the lane, and the door opened. Mattie held Rachel firmly, and they stood watching it. Adam moved to her side, and his hand found hers in the fold of her skirt, his grip comforting.

The bus waited, and she could see the driver peering down the lane. No one moved.

Finally the door closed. The bus moved off down the road.

It was done. Maybe she'd known all along that there wouldn't really be a choice when the moment came. To be Amish was to obey God's law, not men's. The stories of the martyrs flickered through her mind. To be Amish was also to take the consequences, whatever they might be.

•   •   •

Judith
stirred, swimming upward from the depths of sleep. Something wasn't as it should be. She knew that before she came entirely awake as a loud rumble of thunder sounded, followed by the rattle of rain against the bedroom window.

She scrambled out of bed, hurrying to close the window before the rain drenched the floor. Storms always came from the west, with the wind driving the rain against the windows on this side of the house.

The window balked a bit, long enough for her to shiver from the chill breeze, and to recognize the musty, acrid scent the falling rain drew from the ashes that were all that remained of the shed. She yanked, and the window banged shut louder than she'd intended. It would have waked Isaac—

But when she turned to the bed, a flicker of lightning showed her that Isaac wasn't there. The covers had been flung back on his side, and there was no sign of him.

Judith took a step toward the door just as it opened. Isaac came in, closed the door quietly, and leaned against it. Something in the stillness of his figure sent a shiver of alarm through her.

“Isaac? Where were you?”

He jerked at the sound of her voice and then moved away from the door. “Checking on the kinder.” His words seemed muffled. “They're all sleeping right through the thunder.”

“I think it would take more than a little thunder to keep those boys awake.” She crossed to the bed and slid under the sheet and lightweight blanket, shivering a little. “Aren't you coming back to bed?”

Thunder rumbled again, louder. Isaac didn't move. “I'm not sleepy.” He half turned. “I'll go out so you can rest.”

“Don't be so ferhoodled. If you're awake, I'm awake.” She plumped the pillows against the maple headboard. “Komm. We'll sit here awhile and warm up.”

He didn't move.

“Do you want me to make you some hot cocoa?” She started to get up again.

“No, no,” he said quickly. He slid into his side of the bed, sitting back against the headboard, his gaze on the window. The locust tree, whipped by the wind, made black shadows that seemed to struggle against the storm.

Judith shivered and moved closer to Isaac. “It'll be cool in the morning when the boys leave for school. Still, the garden can use the rain.”

Isaac murmured something, and she knew her words hadn't registered with him. He stared at the window as if mesmerized by the storm. Lightning flashed, seeming right on top of them, lighting up the room and, with it, Isaac's face—pain-ravaged, grief-stricken.

Stupid, so stupid.
Why hadn't she realized? It had been lightning, coming with a sudden summer storm, that had set the farmhouse on fire that long-ago night. And now Isaac stared
out at the storm as if by watching he could keep it away from them now.

She ached with the need to touch him, but she was afraid he'd jerk away if she did. She had to do something, say something. What kind of a wife was she if she couldn't comfort him now?

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “The storm has made you remember.”

Soft though it had been, her voice seemed to sting him. He jerked, then moved as if to get out of bed.

Judith reached out to stop him. “Please,” she murmured. “Please don't go.” If he shut her out again, she feared they would never bridge the gap between them.

His struggle was a silent one, but real nonetheless. Finally he sat back against the headboard. “Sorry.” His voice had roughened. “I'm being stupid. I'm a grown man, not a child to be scared of a little lightning.”

The bitterness in his tone frightened her. “You're not stupid. The fire in the shed, and now a storm right on top of it—of course it would bring your memories back.” She paused, but he didn't respond. “There was a storm that night.”

She said the words, praying he would speak. If only he'd open up and let her in . . .

“Ja.” He was rigid, every muscle in his body tense. “Maybe it was the storm that woke me, maybe it was Joseph's crying.” He stopped, making her plead with God to force him to go on. “I didn't understand, not at first. The smoke must have already been affecting me. I couldn't seem to get my brain to work. Just kept thinking the baby was crying and I had to go to him.”

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the room momentarily, and his muscles jerked.

“Mamm had moved him into the little room across the hall just that day. Maybe I thought she didn't hear. I got up—” Another lightning flash revealed his eyes, staring at something that wasn't there. “The floor was hot under my feet. I opened the door. The smoke rushed at me. I was choking, couldn't think. I must have yelled for Daad. I felt my way to the baby's room.”

He was back in that time, she sensed, feeling his way through the smoke, drawn by the crying.

“Seemed like his room was a little protected from the smoke. He still had breath to cry. I grabbed him up. Yelled for Daad again.”

He stopped, sucking in a ragged breath, his chest moving with the effort.

“The flames—I ran down the steps. Tried to shield Joseph with a blanket. Onkel Simon, the others—they came running as I got outside. Tried to get the others out.” Isaac shook his head, rolling it from side to side as if to escape the images in his mind. “They couldn't. I couldn't.”

“It wasn't your fault.” How many people must have said that to Isaac? It hadn't worked. It hadn't taken his guilt away. “You saved Joseph. Don't you think that was what your mamm and daad would have wanted?”

Isaac just shook his head. He moved, and she was sure he was going to pull away from her. Lightning flashed, the boom of thunder following almost immediately. She was going to lose him—

He turned toward her, grabbed her, holding on as if to a lifeline. He buried his face in her neck, clutching her.

Judith wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly, and waited for the storm to be over.

•   •   •

In
the usual morning rush to get the boys out the door for school on time, Judith still managed to find a moment to think tenderly about Isaac. He'd opened up to her in a way he never had in all the years they'd been married. Even though her heart still felt bruised and battered by his pain, she couldn't help but be hopeful, as well. Surely this was the beginning of a new closeness for them—of the kind of marriage she'd longed for with Isaac.

“Mammi, I can't find my homework.” Levi's voice rose to near-panic level. Always so conscientious, he never seemed to lose things like his brother did.

“Levi, it has to be here someplace. I know you did it. Let's look in the drawers of the study desk.” She and Levi began scouring the area of the study desk, hindered a little by Noah's decision to help until Joseph lifted him firmly out of the way.

“It's not here!” Levi was close to tears, despite the fact that his teacher would certain-sure believe him when he said he'd done it. “I can't go without it.”

“Let's just have another look.” Isaac gripped his shoulder in mute reassurance. “Maybe it got mixed in with your brother's things.”

As soon as Isaac said it, Judith realized how likely that was. Paul had scooped his things up hurriedly last night when she'd said that supper was nearly ready.

“I didn't take it.” Paul was indignant, and it was almost comical to see his expression change when Joseph pulled the missing homework from the scrambled mass of his papers. “I'm
sorry, Levi. I'm sorry, Mammi.” Now it was his turn to be near tears. “I didn't do it on purpose. I'm really, really sorry.”