The Amish Seamstress (34 page)

“I've never seen or heard of one.”
Mamm
stirred the soup as she spoke. “When my grandparents died, the bulk of that kind of stuff went to Verna.
From what I can recall, there were at least several boxes' worth, a big jumbled mess of things that should have been thrown away.” She put the spoon into a mug on the counter. “My grandmother was a bit of a pack rat. Then again, so was Verna.”

There was no reason for me to comment on what people chose to save or not—that wasn't the issue. In my opinion, it was far better to save too much than too little, but my
mamm
probably would have disagreed.

“
Ya
. Those are the boxes Verna and I went through, and there was a lot of junk in them. But in and among the junk was some important stuff too. I just wondered if there was any chance that part of the collection got divided out and went to your mother.”

Mamm shrugged. “I have no idea, Izzy. I didn't pay much attention to that sort of thing.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, I did end up with a few special papers that were my mother's, but I haven't looked at them in years. I think they are mostly just recipes and mementos and stuff she kept in a drawer in the old desk.”

My heart beat a little faster. “Could I see those papers?”

“Sure. They are still there in the right bottom drawer, in a manila envelope.” She opened the oven door and pricked the corn bread with a fork. As she stood, she added, “Now that I think about it, there were some documents in there too. You're welcome to take a look if you want.”

I hurried into the living room and knelt beside the large pedestal desk. It was definitely an antique and well worn. The top was stained with ink, and the sides were marred. I knew
Mamm
hoped
Daed
would refinish it when he had some extra time. Scuffed up or not, I had always loved the desk, and as a child I used to sit at it and write and think, having no interest in what was inside. Now there was nothing I wanted more than to examine the contents of that bottom drawer.

I opened it and found the packet. Holding it to my chest, I retreated back to my room. After opening the envelope, I spread the contents across my bed, sorting the items slowly into piles. Sure enough, I found recipes, but also some official-looking documents, including marriage certificates, death certificates, birth certificates, and then a bundle of papers tied with a string.

I carefully sorted through the small stack, realizing these papers were
all church related. There were a few death notices and a couple of letters about membership, but not for anyone I knew. Then again, I decided to compare the names to the family tree, just to be sure.

After that, I came across a document that made me do a double take. I didn't recognize the names of the people involved, but what struck me was how odd it was to see something like this in writing. In the Amish church, any sin could be forgiven if the sinner was willing to confess and repent, but the process was always a verbal one, not something anyone would ever write down. Yet this looked to be just that: a confession and statement of repentance, signed by the sinner and his presiding bishop. Continuing on through the pile, I found several more of these, including one for a man who had conducted a dishonest business dealing and another for a woman who had stolen her neighbor's cow. Then I came to another, and it stole my breath away. It was the church document Verna had told me about, the excommunication declaration and subsequent signed confession of Bernard, Gorg, and Abigail.

The ink had faded and the handwriting was hard to decipher, but I lit my lamp and held the brittle page underneath it.

The document was dated 11 April 1765, and the message was brief:

We, the undersigned, do willingly declare that we betrayed, both in word and deed, the Conestoga Indians, a tribe known to be peaceful, God-fearing, brothers and sisters in Christ
.

We now confess these sins to God and His church, requesting to be reinstated to the fellowship and the faith
.

At the bottom, it had been signed by four people: Bernard, George, Abigail, and somebody named Ingemar Joblenz, who I assumed was the bishop involved.

With the document still in my hand, I sank down on the edge of my bed. It wasn't as if I'd found the rest of the chapbook, but at least now I knew that whatever happened to harden Abigail's and the others' hearts against the Conestogas hadn't defined their entire lives. According to this, they had confessed and reconciled with the church in the end.

Late Monday afternoon, as I double-checked the bag I'd packed to take to Frannie's, the sound of a buggy turning into our drive sent me dashing to the window. It was
Daed
! I'd been waiting all afternoon for him to come back from Rod's.

I ran down the stairs and through the kitchen, grabbing my cape, banging open the back door, and tearing toward the barn.

He had pulled the buggy to a stop.

“Did you get the boxes?” I called out.

“Whoa,”
Daed
said, climbing down to the ground. “How about a hello first?”

I ducked my head, acknowledging my bad manners.

He nodded toward the back of the buggy. “Rod wasn't sure where everything might be, but he did manage to locate one box of papers and he promised to root around for the rest.”

“
Danke
,” I said, both thrilled to get one box but disappointed to not have everything in my possession. With a new baby, Rod and Ruth Ann probably didn't have much time to go poking around in the attic or basement. As soon as I had a day off, I would hire a driver if I had to and offer to do the poking around myself.

I hurried to the back, tugging on the wooden box until I could get both of my hands on it.

“I'll carry it in,”
Daed
said, coming toward me.

It was heavy but not impossibly so. “I have it,” I said, lifting the box in my arms.

I took it straight to my room, knowing I only had about twenty minutes before supper—just long enough for a quick perusal. I went through it all, skimming the papers for the missing pages of the chapbook or another, intact copy.

Sadly, I found neither. Of course, other things of importance could be in here, so I decided to take the box to Frannie's with me and use my downtime there to sort through it more slowly. But overall, I was deeply disappointed. I simply
had
to find those pages and learn the rest of the story.

The next morning, I told
Mamm
goodbye and then
Daed
drove me to Klara and Alexander Rupp's farm, where Frannie lived.

On the way over, he asked about the box he'd brought the day before, if it had done any good and what, exactly, I'd been hoping to find. I reminded him of the chapbook and explained I was on a quest to recover the missing pages.

I sighed, gazing at a covered bridge up ahead. “I just don't understand why anyone would cut up something like that.”

He didn't comment right away, but a few minutes later, once we'd crossed over the creek, he ventured some guesses.

“There might have been shame—for someone in the family—in helping the Indians or in harming them. Perhaps there was fear. There were certainly Plain people who were terrified by the Indians and who didn't protect them the way they should have.”

“But why destroy just half the book? If that was the case, why not just get rid of it completely?”

He shrugged. “Maybe someone didn't want a particular person in the family to know the story but still wanted the early history of the family known someday.”

“Maybe so,” I said, wondering if I would ever find out.

N
INETEEN

W
hen we reached the Rupps' farm,
Daed
offered to carry my stuff into the
daadi haus
for me, so we said our goodbyes in the driveway. As he loaded up and began walking toward the back of the property, I moved to the door of the main house and knocked on the door.

I expected things to be a little confusing at Klara's, but I wasn't prepared for the turmoil going on inside. Alexander let me in, saying as he did, “Izzy,
ach
, I'm ever so thankful you're here.” He wore his work coat and gloves and looked as if he was heading out to the field. “They're in the kitchen. Go on in.”

“
Danke
.”

“Izzy's here!” he called out.

As soon as I stepped inside, he slipped out. I peeled off my cape, hung it on a peg to the right of the door, and headed through the living room to the kitchen.

Pots and pans were stacked on the stove and counters. Marta stood at the sink, tackling a mountain of dirty dishes. She wore a lavender print dress, and her rounded
kapp
sat back on her head a little too far, as if it had been knocked askew and she'd not had a chance to set it right again. She
turned toward me and said a quick hello, swiping at the beads of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand, even though the house was cool.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

Klara, who was as thin as her sister Marta was plump, leaned against the counter with one hand and clutched the small of her back with the other. She greeted me too and then said, “We're running a little behind. We had quite the day yesterday. Ada was over with little Abraham, but he got sick. She was afraid it was the flu, so she left in a hurry, hoping not to expose all of us.”

“And then I got called away for a birth,” Marta added.

“And then our neighbor needed Alexander's help with a pipe that burst, and he didn't get back until late. Needless to say, I couldn't keep up with what needed to be done.”

“Wow. How's Abe?”

Marta sighed. “I thought he just had too many cookies, but Ada said he threw up last night and was running a fever this morning, so I guess I was wrong.”

Poor Abe. I hoped the illness would run its course quickly and that no one else would come down with the same thing.

I looked to the two women and asked where to jump in. “Should I take over with the dishes?”

“No, why don't you handle the linens,” Klara said. “We had a hospital bed and table delivered yesterday, and Alexander adapted it to work with a battery. It's out in the
daadi haus
, right in the living room. The sheets should be out there as well. Once you've made up the bed, come back to help Marta.”

Marta glanced at me over her shoulder and added, “Thank you for coming to us like this, Izzy. There's no one else we'd rather have.” She glanced at Klara and then back at me, adding, “I know it's a sacrifice for you.”

I shrugged, thankful she hadn't said “effort” or “stretch.” I considered reassuring her I was better in that regard since talking with Ella, but it was too complicated to go into right then.

“It won't be easy,” Klara said, “but at least Ada should be able to spell you some. And as soon as my back is better, I'll help. In the meantime, I'll
keep up with the organization of
Mamm
's care—orchestrating meds, that sort of thing. We'll all work together to get her better.”

It turned out the sheets weren't in the
daadi haus
; they were still on the line. Ada had washed them the day before, but after she'd left in a hurry no one else had remembered to retrieve them. Thankful it hadn't rained, I collected the sheets and the full load of towels that were out there too and hauled them all into the main house so Klara could tell me where everything went.

Once I'd dumped my load on the kitchen table, Marta helped me fold while Klara sat in a chair, icing her back.

“I know you folks are relieved Frannie's finally coming home,” I said as I reached for a pillowcase.

The two sisters glanced at each other, and I was reminded that Frannie's being sent home from the hospital was probably more of a hospice-type decision than an indication of any improvement. I asked about her prognosis and then braced myself for the answer.

“It was a hemorrhagic stroke, which is the worst,” Marta said.

Klara nodded. “She had one a few years ago.”