The Rescued (18 page)

Isaac
came out of the barn the next afternoon, pausing to adjust his hat and let his eyes become accustomed to the sunshine. He automatically searched for Judith and found her over by the old generator shed.

She was kneeling on the grass, sorting through some bulbs, her head bowed as she focused on her task. Some tendrils of brown hair had, as usual, escaped her kapp to curl around her ears. He smiled, tenderness filling him at the sight of her.

Judith tried so hard to keep everyone in the family happy. She had a heart full of love for all of them. He should have remembered that when he'd been so angry with her over keeping a secret from him. She would only do such a thing out of love, and he knew it, even if he thought she'd been mistaken in what she'd done.

Right now, she had all of the boys involved in planting bulbs. Joseph was digging the bed while Levi and Paul broke up the clots of dirt. Noah, of course, was mainly getting in the way, but he had his own little shovel, and he was trying to help.

Joseph. He studied his brother as he walked toward them. The boy was growing so much that he'd stopped thinking of him as a child who needed reassurance and encouragement. But maybe a boy his age needed it even more. When Isaac had been fourteen, he'd had Daad to talk to about the things a boy wanted to ask a man.

The trouble was, he'd never been one to talk about his feelings, and Joseph would certain-sure think it odd if he started now. Still, he'd promised Judith he would try, and so he must. He could be more responsive and patient. That wouldn't be hard. If only Joseph could be satisfied with the life ahead of him instead of longing for something else . . .

“Daadi!” Noah spotted him and jumped up, nearly cracking his head on Joseph's spade. “We're planting flowers.”

Isaac reached him and scooped him out of the way, lifting him in his arms. “You are helping, ain't so?”

Noah nodded vigorously. “Mammi says if we bury the bulbs in the ground now, we'll have flowers in the spring.” Worry wrinkled his forehead. “But won't the winter be too cold for them?”

“They'll be fine, because you're going to put a nice blanket of dirt over top of them to keep them warm.” He let Noah slide to the ground and then sat down, pulling his youngest onto his lap. He lifted an eyebrow at Judith. “You decided some flowers would hide the burned spot?”

“Ach, it will disappear by spring anyway. But this seems like a gut place for bulbs, with the lilac bushes behind them. I don't know why I never thought of it before.”

A memory slid into his mind. His mother had had a flower bed in that spot, hadn't she? He'd forgotten it, but surely this was where it had been. He seemed to see her bent over a colorful display, hand gently cupping a blossom.

He choked down a lump in his throat and pushed the memory out of his mind. Make an effort to talk to the kinder, especially to Joseph—that was what he had to do. That was what Judith wanted him to do, and he'd agreed he'd try.

“Should be a pretty sight in the spring.” Luckily he sounded normal. “What are those bulbs you're planting?”

“My mamm shared them with me. She was dividing some of her clumps of flowers. The tiny ones are snowdrops.” She touched them lightly with her fingers. “They bloom first, and they're small, so we'll put them in front, with daffodils interspersed and the tulips behind them. That way we'll have something blooming all spring.”

Isaac nodded, trying to think of something he could say to Joseph and wondering why it should be difficult. “Joseph is
doing a gut job of digging the bed for you, ain't so?” He smiled at his brother and got a startled look in reply.

“He is, for sure.”

Joseph looked a little embarrassed at the attention, but he grinned. “It's easy enough digging. Almost like someone had dug it up before.”

Isaac didn't respond. There was no reason why any of them needed to know that Mammi had once tended her flowers in this same spot.

“Hey! There's something here.” Levi dropped to his knees and burrowed into the dirt like a puppy uncovering a bone.

“Careful.” Joseph knelt next to him, using the hand spade to help him unearth it, whatever it was.

“Probably just a rock—” Isaac began, leaning forward to look, but the words died when Levi pulled out a small wooden object and held it up triumphantly.

“Look, it's a dog. A little wooden dog.”

Isaac was looking, and his heart seemed to stop as he recognized the small toy. He looked away, afraid to let Levi see his expression.

“See, Daadi?” Levi scrambled over to shove it into his hands, and Isaac had no choice but to take it.

“Ja, I see.” He turned it over, handling it gently, running his fingers along the rough knife cuts. He hadn't been very good at woodcarving then. And he'd never attempted it again after the fire, he realized. He'd shut it out of his life, most likely afraid it would make him remember being with Daad in the workshop, listening to Daad's patient voice encouraging him. He'd always encouraged, Isaac realized, whatever his kinder wanted to do.

“Isaac?” Judith's voice was questioning. She knew something was wrong, whether anyone else noticed it or not.

“I . . . it belonged to my little sister. To Jessie.” He fought his treacherous voice, which nearly broke on the name. “I made it for her birthday when she was five.”

He saw them, suddenly. All of them around the pine table in the kitchen, lamplight glowing on smiling faces and Jessie's smile even brighter than the lamp as her big brother handed her a birthday gift. The image was so clear in his mind that he could almost reach out and touch them. He could almost feel Jessie's small hand in his.

“You made it?” Luckily, Levi focused on the fact that his father had produced such a thing, saving Isaac the embarrassment of revealing his feelings to his son.

“Ja.” He cleared his throat. “We tried to make the presents we gave each other for birthdays, just like you do.”

“Why don't you make anything like that now? Why, Daadi?” Levi put his hand on Isaac's knee, persistent.

“I wasn't very gut at it,” he said. He managed to glance at Joseph, and his brother's expression hit him in the heart. Joseph stared at the battered little dog as if it were the most amazing treasure he'd ever seen.

“Was Jessie five when . . .” Joseph stopped, as if he couldn't manage the rest of the question.

He nodded. Short. Curt.
Let this be an end to it. Please.

Joseph held out his hand without speaking. Isaac had to fight his reluctance. Then he put the toy dog into Joseph's hand. Amazing, that the boys weren't clamoring to hold it. Maybe they sensed without understanding that this was something too serious for fussing over.

He didn't really want to watch, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Joseph turned the toy dog over in his hands much as Isaac had done, touching it carefully. With respect.

It hit him then. Joseph had never so much as seen anything that had belonged to his family. Everything had been lost in the fire. Nothing remained to remind them of the five who died. Mamm. Daad. Deborah, nine. Mary, seven. And Jessie, just five.

The boy looked up suddenly, his face open, a startling difference from the sullen look that had been habitual recently. “What was she like?”

Isaac felt as if a vise had closed around his heart. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to remember, and he certain-sure didn't want to feel the pain again. But Joseph was looking at him with such hope, and he could sense Judith willing him to answer.

For an instant resentment flared in him that she would pressure him to do something so painful, but it died instantly, and it shamed him. He'd promised to try to talk to Joseph. He hadn't expected it to be about sweet, lost little Jessie, but so it was.

“She was happy,” he said, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. “I never knew such a happy little girl. Every time I looked at her, she was smiling.” He glanced at Judith, pleading silently for help. “Wasn't she?”

“Jessie was like sunshine,” she said, lips curving a little with the memory. “Her hair was so light a yellow that it was almost white, and she had the biggest blue eyes. She had a dimple in her cheek that showed when she smiled. Right here, just like Noah does.” She touched Noah's dimple, and he giggled, not quite sure what was going on.

“She always wanted to do what the older ones did,” she went on. “And when I came to see Deborah, she followed us around.
I remember when we taught her and Mary to jump rope. No matter how many times Jessie tripped, she'd laugh and try again.”

Just when he'd thought he'd gotten his emotions under control, Isaac's eyes filled with tears. Jessie was suddenly so alive in his thoughts, her eyes dancing, squealing with joy when he gave her the little dog he'd made, throwing her arms around him in a huge hug.

Levi patted his knee as if to comfort him. “Daadi? You look like you want to cry. Does it make you feel sad to think about your little sister?”

He put his arm around his son. “A little bit.” He hugged the boy close, rejoicing in the sturdy little body. “I wish . . .”
I wish you could have known her.
That's what he was thinking, and it shocked him. Whatever Levi might know about his aunt Jessie, it had come from someone else, not from him.

He was shamed, suddenly. How could it be right that Jessie and Deborah and Mary, to say nothing of Mammi and Daadi, should be unknown to Joseph and the other children, and all because of him?

“I wish I remembered them.” Joseph said it in a soft voice, his eyes still on the dog. “I've always thought maybe it would be gut to have pictures, like the Englisch do, because then I could see them.”

“The pictures you make in your mind are even better,” Judith said. “You can see her now from the things we said about her, ain't so?”

Joseph nodded. “Ja.” His voice trembled on the word, and he wiped his face with his hand, leaving a smear of dirt on his cheek. He held the wooden dog out to Isaac, not speaking.

Isaac's throat clenched. He closed his hand over his brother's,
carving and all. “You should have it. To remember your sister.” He glanced at Levi, who had found it, after all. “Okay, Levi?”

Levi nodded, his face solemn as if he knew he was taking part in something very important.

“Denke.” Joseph's face lit up like sunshine, and for an instant he looked so much like Jessie. “Denke.”

Lancaster County, Late September 1953

M
attie
sat at one end of the study table in the kitchen, trying to catch up with her part of the Round Robin letter for her cousins. She wanted to sound more hopeful than she felt at the moment, even while being honest with them. If she couldn't write out her confused feelings to her dear cousins, whom
could
she tell?

Still, she didn't want them worrying overmuch about her. There were plenty of worried people around her already, and no sense in adding any more. She could only hope and pray that what happened here in their small school district would put an end to the struggle, so that other mothers wouldn't have to face what she did, but somehow she didn't think it would be that easy.

God had not promised life would be easy. He had promised that He would be with those who believed. Their part was to believe and to keep their own promises.

“Greet the cousins for me, Mammi.” Rachel sat at the other
end of the table with Anna on her lap, helping her little sister practice printing her name.

“Ja, I will,” Mattie said, cherishing this quiet time at the end of a busy, worrisome day.

On either side of her, the boys did their homework—Nathaniel working through his steadily, while Toby circled objects on a page quickly and then had to turn back and erase when Rachel pointed out an error.

Rachel had been cutting out a new dress when Mattie told the boys it was homework time, but she'd left her work to come and supervise the younger ones' tasks. Without being asked, of course. Rachel had voluntarily decided to take over homework supervision once school started, and Mattie suspected Rachel did it even better than she did, never growing impatient and quietly recalling her brothers to their jobs when their attention wandered.

Mattie turned back to her letter and started a new paragraph.

Rachel is getting so grown up these days—far more mature than we were at fourteen, I think. Perhaps the trouble we've gone through has made her more serious than she otherwise would be, but she's such a sweet girl, and I long so much for her to have the life we've dreamed of for her.

Why shouldn't Rachel have that life? A flare of rebellion lit Mattie's thoughts. Rachel had already been through the pain of losing her father. Why should she have to be the one to undergo this trial?

Mattie fought to dismiss the thought. God was with them, and nothing would happen to them that was not in accord with His will. It was just so hard sometimes to remember.

She put her pen down and moved to the sink for a glass of water, drinking it standing and looking out the window. It was getting dark already, with the days growing shorter as autumn drew in, tightening its grip. Despite the beauty of the season, with the fields turning gold in the slanting afternoon sun, she hated to see the year moving inexorably toward winter.

The kinder loved winter, of course, looking forward eagerly to the ice on the pond and the first snowfall. But it became lonely on those long winter evenings. When it was dark by suppertime, no one dropped by to visit. She'd never thought of winter evenings that way when Ben was alive, instead looking forward to those precious moments when the kinder were in bed and they were alone together, talking or reading or just sitting quietly, knowing the other was close at hand.

The memories were fading, she knew, gently but as inexorable as winter's arrival. At first, after Ben's death, those memories had been too painful, but eventually she'd welcomed them. She'd clung to them, even when they were bittersweet. Now, it seemed they'd become removed enough to look at, remember with love, and then put away like a letter she'd read but wanted to save.

And that thought brought her inevitably to Adam. At least now she could think about him without her cheeks growing hot as if she were a sixteen-year-old. Surely by now he had gotten over his foolishness. He hadn't mentioned it again, so maybe that meant he had realized how wrong it would be to marry a woman older than he was, and with a family already.

That was what she wanted, wasn't it? For him to forget about it? So why did something in her heart long to reject the thought that he'd given up so easily?

She turned back to the room and then glanced out the window once again, half watching for someone moving along the lane or across the field. Adam had accepted her refusal to let him sleep in the barn to protect her and the children, but apparently only because he and Daad Jonah had hatched another plot between the two of them.

They seemed to think she wasn't aware that the two of them had been coming by the house to check on her throughout the evening, and on into the night, as well. The younger children hadn't realized it, but Rachel had noticed, too. It hadn't taken much explaining on Mattie's part to let her know why they were doing such a thing.

In fact, Rachel seemed to feel better because of it, as if she had been secretly uneasy when they were here alone in the night. Mattie had to admit, though she didn't think she'd tell Adam or her father-in-law, that she felt a bit safer knowing they were out there.

It was pointless to peer out the window, she chided herself. They wouldn't come by this early. She returned to her chair and her letter.

It wasn't a minute later that Mattie heard the sound of a vehicle turning into the lane. She stiffened, dropping her pen, and her gaze met Rachel's. She read there the same fear she felt herself.

The deputy serving the papers wouldn't come at this hour, would he? Each time it had happened so far, it had been during the day. She had convinced herself, once evening came, that she was safe for another night. What if the police had changed their plans, maybe thinking to avoid having other people around when they served the papers?

The sound of the car grew louder as it neared the house. It
wasn't just someone using the lane to turn around in. It was someone coming to see her.

Mattie was suddenly so cold she felt as if she'd been turned to ice. Would she be able to move if she had to? Or would she shatter into pieces, like an icicle the kinder might knock down from the eaves?

“Mammi?” Fear laced Rachel's voice, and it recalled Mattie to herself. She was the mother. She had to stay calm so the kinder wouldn't be frightened.

“It's all right.” They both heard the slam of a car door and footsteps mounting the porch steps. “I'll go. You stay with your brothers and sister.”

Rachel nodded, her eyes wide, and the other three children watched with varying degrees of comprehension. Had she explained well enough what might happen if the police came to her? If not, it was too late now, as a knock sounded on the door.

Mattie rose, steadying herself with one hand on the study table. Then she walked to the door, ready to see a uniform through the pane.

She didn't, and for a moment she couldn't comprehend what she was seeing. Mrs. Graham stood there, on Mattie's back porch—the school board president's wife.

Smoothing down her apron, Mattie opened the door. “Mrs. Graham. Wilkom. I'm afraid the stand is closed, but if you need something . . .”

“It's not that.” The woman's smile flickered unconvincingly and was gone. “I . . . I'd just like to talk with you.”

“Please, komm.”

She gestured, and Mrs. Graham walked into the back hallway, lined on one side with hooks for outdoor clothing, and
through into the kitchen. There she paused, looking around so intently that Mattie guessed she'd never been inside an Amish home before.

“These are my children. Rachel and Anna you've probably seen at the stand. And the boys are Nate and Toby.”

“I remember Nate, too. He gave my little girl half his whoopie pie.” She managed a genuine smile for the children.

“We were just doing homework,” Mattie explained, her mind whirling in search of a reason why the wife of the school board president would be calling on her. “I have coffee warm on the stove, and there's berry pie—”

“No, no, I can't stay,” the woman said quickly. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?” She glanced at the children, making it clear that whatever she wanted to say wasn't for their ears.

“Come into the living room, please.” Mattie darted a stern look toward Anna, who'd begun to slide off Rachel's lap as if she thought the invitation was for her. “Rachel, will you finish up here with the kinder?”

Don't let them come into the other room.
That was what she meant, and her daughter's expression told her that Rachel understood. Rachel nodded, drawing Anna close to her.

Mattie led the way to the living room and gestured toward the sofa. Once her guest sat, she drew a rocker up closer to her, so that they might talk in lower voices. With the gas lamp on the table between them, the room was as it might have been in those memories of hers of evenings with Ben. But nothing about this visit from Mrs. Graham was likely to be comforting.

Mattie clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking, and then she realized that the other woman was doing the same thing. Oddly enough, that gave her a little confidence.
If Mrs. Graham needed the comfort of a hand holding hers, they were more alike than she might have feared.

“Are you sure you won't have something? A cup of tea, if you don't care for coffee?” Just the action of putting the kettle on, then of drinking or eating something together, might make this encounter less upsetting.

“That's kind of you, but no. I really can't stay. Walter thinks I'm at a women's meeting at church.” The woman glanced toward the front windows as if she expected to be spotted and asked to account for her presence.

“He doesn't know you're here, then.” There'd been little chance that Mrs. Graham had come at her husband's suggestion anyway. But it surprised Mattie, after what Mrs. Graham had said about never interfering in her husband's business, to find her apparently doing so. Why else could she have come, if not because of the school problem?

“No, Walter doesn't know I've come. He wouldn't be pleased.” She paused, her hands clinging to each other in her lap. “This is so difficult.” The woman's eyes widened, as if she feared she'd said something she shouldn't. “I don't mean that being here with you is difficult. You've always been so nice when we've talked at the stand. I felt . . . well, as if we might have been friends if not for this whole situation. This business of the school is what is so upsetting.”

“Ja, it is,” Mattie agreed.

More for her than for the other woman, Mattie would think, but she fought down the uncharitable reaction. Clearly the Englisch woman was upset. Not all the Englisch had turned against them in this struggle.

Mrs. Graham took a deep breath and seemed to straighten. “I want to apologize to you.”

“It's not your fault.” Mattie wasn't sure it was right to blame anybody for what was happening. In this matter, the Amish and the Englisch just seemed to be on a collision course.

“No, but perhaps . . .” She hesitated. “Perhaps none of us can sit back and say it's not our fault. If people had talked with each other sooner, we might have resolved the conflict.”

“The bishop says that people of good will can always come to an agreement.” Mattie frowned, feeling her way, longing to express herself but afraid she couldn't. “Maybe that will still happen. I know some people are working toward a resolution.”

The woman nodded. “I've heard, and I'm praying they will succeed. I'm just so . . . so very sorry that things have gotten so out of control. I'm sure this was never what anyone imagined. How could anyone want to see parents going to jail for trying to take care of their children in the way they think best?”

The words touched Mattie's fears. She closed her eyes for an instant, reaching for calm, and then tried to smile at the woman who looked so worried.

“Denke. Thank you. It's kind of you to say so.” She hesitated, but it might be important to know as much as possible, and she couldn't let this opportunity slip away. “Do you think there are others in the Englisch community, besides people like Pastor Colby who have already spoken up, who feel the same as you do?”

“I'm sure there are many.” A shadow crossed her face. “People like me, who stayed silent too long. But it's only fair to tell you that my husband isn't among them.”

That would have been too much to hope for, Mattie supposed. “I'm sure he feels he's doing what is right.”

Mrs. Graham surprised her by wrinkling her nose. “Or maybe he just can't admit he's been wrong.”

Encouraged, Mattie asked, “Isn't there anyone he might listen to? The bishop, or Pastor Colby, or . . . or you?”

The woman was already shaking her head. “I have tried. It's no use.” She seemed to brace herself. “That's why I'm taking the step of coming here. I shouldn't get involved, but Walter won't listen, and you've always been so kind, and I just felt . . .” She seemed to peter out.

Impulsively, Mattie reached out to clasp her hand. “I'm glad you came tonight. I was sitting here worrying, and it makes me feel better to know you understand.”

Mrs. Graham's eyes suddenly filled with tears, startling her. “That's not the only reason I came. I had to tell you—” She stopped, shook her head, and started again, staring down at their clasped hands.

“When I was cleaning Walter's den, I saw some papers he'd left on his desk. I shouldn't have looked at them, I know. But I just glanced that way and saw something, and then I couldn't look away. I saw your name.” She looked up again, meeting Mattie's gaze, and her eyes were filled with anguish. “I read the paper. It contained a list of names, and it had dates on it. At first I didn't understand, but then I realized. They were the dates on which each person was going to be served with the order to obey or be arrested.”