The Rescued (22 page)

“Denke. That's sehr kind of you. We'll be glad of both,” Bishop Thomas said.

Adam could only chastise himself. Why hadn't he thought that they would need drivers today, of all days? He should have arranged something. The young minister, unfamiliar though his manner sometimes seemed, was proving to be a good friend to the Leit.

Another set of wheels crunched on the gravel. “The police.” It took Adam a moment to realize that he had spoken. He glanced toward the house, but obviously they had heard the vehicle as well. After all, it was what they'd all been listening for this morning.

Mattie moved through the group to stand between him and her father-in-law, with Pastor Colby and the bishop just beyond. The others filed out to stand silently behind them, their faces grave.

The car stopped at the porch. There were two of them today—the chief of police himself and a young patrolman. They got out of the car and then hesitated, obviously surprised at the number of people who waited there. The patrolman, his young face paling, made a movement with his hand toward the weapon on his hip.

“Don't be any more of a fool than you can help,” Chief Ferguson snapped. “That's Bishop Thomas Beiler and Pastor
Colby. Obviously these folks are here to give support, not start a riot.”

The patrolman, going from pale to flushed, took a step back, his hands dropping to his sides. The chief mounted the steps and stood in front of them to greet by name each person he knew.

His face grew nearly as solemn as theirs must be. “Seems to me I ought to explain to Mrs. Lapp and everyone else exactly what is going to happen. Since her daughter has not gone to school as ordered, I'll have to escort Mrs. Lapp to the county jail. When it's time, we'll go to the magistrate's court.” He paused, looking from face to face. “It's not the main courtroom, you understand. It's not as formal.”

Several people nodded. After all, some of them, like Bishop Thomas, had been through this already with those who had been arrested.

Apparently satisfied that they understood, he went on. “In the magistrate's hearing, Mrs. Lapp can plead guilty, in which case she agrees to send her daughter to school. She'll pay a fine and then come home. If she doesn't plead guilty . . .” He hesitated, and Adam suddenly saw how reluctant he was. “Well, then, it's up to the magistrate.” He focused on Mattie, who looked very small in the midst of the men surrounding her. “Do you understand, Mrs. Lapp?”

Her composure held. “I understand.” Her voice was steady. “I'm ready.”

“Then if you'll come—”

“Wait a minute, Chief,” Pastor Colby interrupted. “In view of the fact that Mrs. Lapp is a woman, I think someone should be allowed to accompany her in the police car. The bishop, for instance.”

Adam held his breath. Certain sure they wouldn't let
him
, but if they'd allow the bishop to go . . .

“That's against the rules,” the younger officer said.

The chief gave him an annoyed glance. “I have no problem with Bishop Thomas accompanying Mrs. Lapp as far as the jail, if he wishes.”

“I do.” The bishop seemed to send a silent thank-you to the minister. “Komm, Mattie.” He touched her arm lightly, and they walked steadily down the steps and to the car. The officer nipped in ahead of them to open the back door.

Adam kept his gaze pinned to Mattie's dear face. His heart was breaking, but as long as he could see her, maybe he wouldn't fly into pieces. The door was closed, and two officers got into the front. When the car pulled away, Adam felt as if a part of him had been severed.

“I'll take as many as I can in my car,” Pastor Colby said. “If you want, I have some members of my church standing by who will come and drive anyone to the hearing once we know what time it will be.”

“Denke.” Onkel Jonah's voice shook a little, and Adam took hold of his arm in support.

“My uncle and I would be glad to come with you,” he said. “And I'm sure there are many others who would like a ride to the hearing.”

“Fine. Let's go, then. As soon as we reach a phone, I'll make some calls for drivers to come here to pick people up. In the meantime, I'll get you to the jail.” He hesitated. “You know they probably won't let you see her once she's checked in.”

Onkel Jonah seemed to have recovered his strength after his momentary lapse. He straightened. “It makes no matter.
We will be close by, and Mattie will know we're there. That's all we can do now.”

All we can do for someone we love.
Adam had never felt so helpless in his life.

•   •   •

Isaac
watched Judith and the buggy disappear from sight down the road toward Rebecca's place, his insides churning as if the paddle from the milk tank were stirring them up. He made an effort to hang on to his righteous indignation. He had a right to be angry when his own wife sided against him.

Against that conviction stood an even stronger one: He should never have let those words come out of his mouth. How could he say that Judith was not Joseph's mother, when she had been just that to the boy for most of his life? Joseph didn't even remember his own mother.

Still, it wasn't right that she and Joseph conspired against him. A wife was supposed to support her husband. Joseph was his responsibility, trusted to him by Mamm and Daad as surely as if the words had been written in stone.

“See what you did?” Joseph's hands clenched into fists, and his face was red with anger.

“What I did?” The boy's words were a match touched to tinder. “I didn't do this to Judith. You did. You're the one who pressured her to help you do wrong.”

“It's not wrong!” Joseph flared. “Just because it's not what you want, that doesn't make it wrong!”

“You're not old enough—”

“You were my age when you made decisions for the rest of
your life. And you're the one who's pressed Judith, trying to make her support you.”

“She's my wife.” A small voice in his heart was telling him not to talk to the boy that way, but his anger and pain drowned it out.

“You only married her because you needed someone to be a mother to me!” Joseph threw the words at him like a rock, and, as if it had actually been one, Isaac was struck backward.

“What are you talking about? Where did you get that crazy idea?”

“Judith said so.”

He grasped Joseph by the shoulders. “She didn't. She couldn't have. She'd never tell you such a thing.”

Joseph's gaze slid away from his. “She said it. Just not to me. But I heard her. She said it to Grossmammi. She said you married her because it was sensible. Because you needed someone to take care of me and you thought she'd be a gut mammi to me.”

Isaac let go of his brother, trying to dismiss the words. “She can't believe it.”

“She does.” Joseph's voice cracked. “So you can blame that on me, too, just like you blame me for Daad and Mamm dying. You don't need to worry about me anymore. I'm leaving!”

Before Isaac could even focus, Joseph turned and bolted, running straight across the field. Recovering himself, Isaac started after him, only to give up before he'd gone twenty feet. The boy was as fast as a hare. He'd never catch him.

At least he was headed toward Onkel Simon's. Simon would take care of him.

Isaac turned away to discover that Levi and Paul were standing a few steps from him, looking at him with wide eyes.

“What's wrong with Joseph?” Levi said. “Why is he running like that?”

“Never mind Joseph. Have you finished with the hens?”

Levi stiffened at the sharp tone, and Paul inched back, looking frightened.

What was wrong with him? He was blundering around, hurting the people he loved, and he didn't even know why.

“I'm sorry,” Isaac said quickly. He held out his arms to his sons.

They came to him slowly, as if reluctant to trust his mood, and it was like a knife in his heart. He drew them close.

“Everything will be all right.” Could he really promise that? “Why don't you go in to see your aunt? I bet she has a snack for you, ain't so?”

Paul nodded and raced toward the house. Levi took a couple of steps and looked back. “Daadi? Aren't you coming?”

He tried to smile normally. “I'll be there in a few minutes. I have to finish something in the barn first. You go ahead.”

Levi nodded, but still he went slowly, as if he wasn't confident that things were right.

Isaac spun and headed for the refuge of the barn. There was work to finish. There was always work to finish on a farm.

Somehow the work got him through the day. He kept Levi and Paul busy, relying on Miriam to handle Noah. Joseph didn't come back.

He's at Onkel Simon's,
he told himself.
He's all right. Maybe Onkel Simon can make him see sense.

But by early afternoon, the words had lost their power to soothe him. Doubts crept in. Why hadn't Joseph returned? What was Judith doing? What was she thinking?

The doubts grew louder and louder until they nearly deafened Isaac.
Do something,
he told himself.
Keep busy.

Realizing he'd never finished the stall he'd been cleaning when the trouble erupted with Joseph, he headed for the barn. If he kept moving, he wouldn't have to think.

But when he reached the stall he could only stare at the shovel that lay where he'd left it. This was what he did. This was how he handled things. He went on to the next job and did it, and sooner or later, things started to go better.

But somehow he didn't think it was working this time. He couldn't ignore what had happened and hope the trouble would disappear. Joseph. Judith. What was he going to do?

He didn't know. The emptiness inside him sent him to his knees.

Isaac wasn't sure how long he knelt there, struggling to face the truth about himself. About his life. About his love for Judith and his brother.

A board creaked, and he turned, hoping it was Joseph, hoping he could find the words to heal the trouble between them. But it was Onkel Simon, regarding him gravely.

“Isaac? Was ist letz?”

Isaac rose to his feet. “Is Joseph with you?”

“Joseph?” Simon's eyes widened. “No. I haven't seen the boy since we finished the milking this morning. Why?”

Isaac's thoughts stumbled over the words. “I thought . . . I thought sure he was coming to you.” All this time, and he didn't know where Joseph was.

As always, Onkel Simon seemed to understand more than you thought possible. He put a hand on Isaac's shoulder. “Tell me what is happening.”

“It's Joseph. We quarreled.” Usually Joseph would run to Judith, but Judith wasn't here. Judith wouldn't stand between them any longer—that was what she'd said, and Isaac hadn't even thought about what that would mean. “I thought . . .”

But it didn't matter any longer what he'd thought. Judith was gone. Joseph was gone. And he was responsible.

He spun and ran for a horse. Onkel Simon, a few steps behind him, grasped the halter when he brought Blackie out. Isaac readied the harness for the wagon. He'd have to take it. Judith had the buggy.

It was a matter of minutes for them to back the horse between the shafts and then, working in unison, harness him. When Isaac clambered up to the seat, Onkel Simon put one hand on the lines. “Just tell me. Where are you going?”

Isaac tried to make the tight muscles in his throat work. “Joseph has run away. I have to get Judith.”

Onkel Simon nodded, face solemn. He stepped back. “Da Herr sei mit du,” he murmured.

The Lord be with you.
He was going to need it.

Lancaster County, October 1953

M
attie
had been in vehicles before, when going to a wedding or a funeral at a distance, and that time when the ambulance had come for Ben. But the police car wasn't like any of the other cars. The backseat was tiny and cramped, with little room for their feet. The doors didn't have handles, and there was a heavy screen between them and the front seat.

She tried not to shiver outwardly, but inside she knew she was quaking with fear. She didn't dare to look back at the others as the vehicle drove off, because that would surely make her cry.

As they pulled onto the main road, Bishop Thomas spoke quietly in dialect. “Have courage, Mattie. The Lord is with you and will be your protection.”

The patrolman shot a glance toward them. “Chief, shouldn't they have to speak English? We don't know what they're saying when they talk that way.”

The bishop spoke before the chief could answer. “I am accustomed to saying prayers in my own language. If you
insist, I will pray in Englisch instead for our sister Mattie to be delivered from those who persecute her.”

Silence, lasting for a long moment.

The chief cleared his throat. “You go ahead and pray however you want to, Bishop Thomas. We don't have a problem with it.” The glance he directed at the patrolman was irate.

“Thank you.” The bishop's tone was tranquil, as if he hadn't just accused them of being persecutors. He turned to Mattie and switched back to Pennsylvania Dutch. “Don't be frightened. No one will harm you.”

Mattie looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “When I talked to Rachel about it, I said we should remember Paul and Silas in prison. She said she would pray for me to be delivered like them.”

He nodded. “Rachel is growing into a young woman of strong faith.”

“But I'm afraid I'm not. I don't think I would be able to praise God in an Englisch jail. I would be too frightened.”

“We don't any of us know what we can do until we face a situation,” he said. “We must trust that God will give you strength for what lies ahead.”

Mattie nodded, hoping her faith and strength would be enough.

“Komm. We'll pray.”

He launched into a familiar prayer in German, one from
Christenpflicht
, the prayer book found in every Amish home. The words were familiar and comforting, words she'd used and heard hundreds and hundreds of times, and Mattie began to say them silently in her heart, trying to make them her own petition to the Lord Jesus Christ.

The ride to the jail wasn't long enough, it seemed to her. Too soon they were on the outskirts of town, and then the vehicle pulled up in front of an imposing stone building. Mattie's heart seemed to jump into her throat at the sight of it, and for an instant her head spun.

The bishop's hand closed on her arm. “Have faith, Mattie. Only hold to your faith.”

She swallowed hard, trying to cling to the words.

They could not get out until the patrolman opened the door for them. The bishop slid out first and then held out his hand to help her. As she stood, he nodded toward a car that had pulled up behind them—Pastor Colby, with Daad Jonah and Adam. A surge of warmth went through her at the sight, and then the chief had taken her arm and was escorting her toward the entrance.

A small group of people had been gathered around the door, but now they turned and rushed toward her. Several people held notebooks, and one had a camera. They began pelting her with questions, not waiting for one another, their voices turning into a jumble of noise that she was glad not to understand.

The camera appeared in front of her, and the man snapped several pictures, it seemed. She couldn't get away from the camera, not with the chief clutching her arm. She could only duck her head and pray the camera hadn't caught her face.

At a gesture from the chief, the patrolman began pushing people back away from them, and with the chief on one side and Bishop Thomas on the other, they propelled her the rest of the way to the door and through it. The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the relentless noise.

They were in a large lobby, she realized, much like the one
at the hospital. Directly in front of them was a high counter with a uniformed policeman sitting behind it.

“I'm afraid you can't come any farther with us, Bishop.” Chief Ferguson sounded firm but regretful, as well. Mattie realized that he had welcomed the bishop's presence. Perhaps he had been afraid she would break down if the bishop hadn't been with her.

“I will wait here for the others, then.” He nodded toward a bench against the wall and then looked steadily into her eyes. “Have courage, Mattie. The Lord is with you.”

She nodded, determined not to make this worse by bursting into tears. Then she turned, moving with the chief through a doorway into the labyrinth beyond the lobby, into the unknown.

Apparently being brought in by the police involved a lot of paperwork. She was asked a number of questions as an officer painstakingly filled out a form with her answers. When she'd finished, another officer appeared, carrying something that looked like a small toolbox. He opened it and put a lined card on the desk in front of her. She looked up at him questioningly.

“Fingerprints,” he said loudly, as if she were hard of hearing. “I have to take your fingerprints.” He reached for her hand, and she drew back instinctively.

“Enough,” the chief said, his voice rasping. “No fingerprints, no photographs.”

The man put on a mulish expression. “Regulations say—”

“Forget it,” Chief Ferguson snapped, seeming at the end of his patience. “I've been pushed around by politicians for weeks now, and enough is enough. We don't need to trouble Mrs. Lapp with fingerprints and photos. Time enough for that once the hearing is over, if necessary.”

Apparently the anger in his voice was convincing. The man who had been hovering over her slipped back, closing his little box.

“This way,” the chief said, gesturing to her. He guided her through several more doors and hallways. When he stopped, it was in front of a small cell, empty except for a narrow cot. From somewhere beyond another door, she could hear clattering noises, the sound of women's voices, a snatch of a song and a voice raised in anger.

“This is what's called a holding cell.” He opened the door and gestured.

Mattie walked inside, went to the cot, and sat, folding her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. He was going to leave her here. She might never have seen an actual cell before, but she had seen the drawings in the
Martyrs Mirror
, and she knew what they looked like. At least in this one there were no chains, and a bed instead of a heap of straw.

The chief stood in front of her, frowning and ill at ease, as if he wished he were somewhere else. “You're safe here. I have to lock the door, but nobody can get in, and no one will bother you, understand?”

She nodded, clenching her hands together even tighter.

“I'll come back and get you when it's time to go to the hearing. I promise I'll come myself.” He hesitated, started to turn away, and then turned back. “Look, it's not my place to advise you, but if you don't back down when you go in front of the magistrate, he'll sentence you to jail. You know that, right?”

“Ja . . . yes. You explained.” Mattie used her words sparingly, afraid of losing control if she spoke too much.

“Then you'll have to be fingerprinted and photographed. You'll be searched. And I'll have to put you in with the general
female population.” He jerked a nod toward the door beyond which the voices came. “I'll be honest with you—I don't want to do it, but I won't have a choice.”

Was he asking her forgiveness? She wasn't sure.

“I understand.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Just give way. Nobody expects you to carry the burden of this fight. Let the men do it. Their shoulders are broad enough. Just pay the fine and go home to your children. Obey the law until it's changed.”

She didn't speak. What was there to say? The Leit hadn't sought out this battle.

Finally he shrugged. He went out, and the cell door clanged shut behind him. Shut and locked, leaving her alone.

Mattie looked around at the bare stained walls, at the metal bars, at a high window in the opposite wall covered with a heavy grate. A shudder went through her.

She tried to project her thoughts back the way they'd come, back to the lobby where by this time Daad Jonah and Adam would be waiting with the bishop. She tried to feel their presence. Tried to feel the Lord's presence. But she couldn't. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale, she was alone.

•   •   •

One
thing Judith could say for Barbie—she was never at a loss for words. She'd seemed to realize from the moment of her arrival at the farm-stay that Judith was in no mood to talk, and she had easily filled in the gap with her chatter while they worked together around the house, making the beds and putting out fresh towels. Now they washed dishes together, and she was still talking.

“I told Rebecca that I think retired couples make the easiest guests,” she was saying now, referring to the current visitors. “Look at these two couples. They came down to breakfast right on time, and now they've taken off on their own to go sightseeing. All I had to do was give them a map and a few suggestions, and they were off for the day.”

Some response seemed needed. Judith rubbed a plate dry with unnecessary vigor. “They seem very nice. Polite and friendly.”

She hadn't had much to do with them, since, as Barbie said, they were willing to entertain themselves. And Barbie's bubbling personality made folks turn to her naturally, rather than to Judith.

“They'll be back later this afternoon,” Barbie continued, up to her elbows in hot, sudsy water. “The men want to try their hand at milking. Rebecca's brother will take care of that, so we don't have to deal with it. He's gotten wonderful gut at explaining farmwork to the Englisch.”

Judith discovered that if she focused the upper level of her thoughts on Barbie's chatter, she could ignore the fear and pain that lurked beneath. “Are we supposed to do something with the wives then?”

“If they seem at loose ends. Rebecca says when they start wandering around the house like they're looking for something, it's time to suggest an idea.” Barbie put another plate in the drainer and attacked a baking pan. “Rebecca is much better than she thinks she is at taking care of the guests. She was tongue-tied that first weekend, she says.”

Ignoring the temptation to comment that Barbie didn't suffer from that, Judith considered the bigger problem. “What are we supposed to do with the women?”

“We could take them over to the workshop and show them Matt's furniture.” Rebecca's intended ran a handcrafted furniture business in what had been intended for a stable. “We might even sell something.”

Judith managed a noncommittal sound at the idea. Was she even going to get through the day? And what was she going to do when it was over and time to go home? That seemed even worse.

Judith had never felt so tired and discouraged in her life. She gripped the counter edge, willing herself not to give in to the weakness.

“That's that,” Barbie said, taking the towel from Judith's hand. “Now you're going to sit down and have a mug of tea. The water's already hot, and there's nothing else needs doing right at the moment.”

While she was talking, Barbie was bringing the water back to a boil and pouring it into a mug.

“Now, just sit.” She gently pushed Judith into a chair and plunked the mug in front of her. “I'm going to the phone shanty to check for messages.” She hesitated, frowning at Judith. “When I get back, you can tell me about whatever is wrong, if you want. If not . . . well, that's okay, too. I might not be as wise as Rebecca or Grossmammi, but I can listen.”

Before Judith could find something to say, her cousin had whisked out the door.

So, she hadn't been doing as well as she'd thought in hiding her feelings. That wasn't so surprising, since she felt as if she'd been battered with a board. Propping her elbows on the table, Judith buried her face in her hands.

Where did she go from here? Somehow, she had to find the strength she needed so desperately.

One thing was certain—she couldn't keep trying to be a buffer between Joseph and Isaac. She'd spent what seemed the past year trying, and she had failed. The two of them were further apart than ever, and it seemed she could do nothing about it.

Isaac would have to find his own way to deal with his brother, just as Joseph must. That disastrous scene this morning had convinced her more than any words of advice possibly could. She loved them both so dearly, but she couldn't change them. The weight of it seemed to crush her heart.

Judith blotted away a tear and took a gulp of the hot tea to ease her tight throat. There. Crying would not help. Nor would feeling sorry for herself.

The letters she'd been reading slid into her thoughts. Mattie must have had the same feelings she did. Mattie had struggled with grief and denial and the sense that she had been unfairly burdened. But she'd found the courage to do what was right when her tribulation came. Surely Judith's problems were small compared to Mattie's.

A buggy coming down the lane jerked her to attention. Quickly she patted away any trace of tears and rose, moving to the door.

It wasn't a buggy. It was a wagon, with Isaac driving. Her heart turned over. Something was wrong—Isaac would never have come unless someone needed her. The kinder—

By the time she reached the porch, Isaac was jumping down. She flew to him, her heart pounding.

“What is it? What's wrong? Is one of the kinder hurt?”