The Rescued (24 page)

Mattie knew. Even if they never spoke of it, she knew that somehow, Mrs. Graham had interceded on the side of peace and understanding.

Adam's hand was warm on her elbow as he turned her away
from the reporters who were headed in their direction. “You won't want to talk to them, ain't so? Let's go home.”

•   •   •

When
Isaac and Judith reached home, Isaac drove straight past the house and on toward the barn and beyond it, leaving the lane behind and jolting over the field. Clinging to the seat as she rocked dangerously, Judith looked at Isaac, and the cautioning words died on her tongue. His face was so determined and so solemn that she couldn't speak.

They'd nearly reached the woods when the wheels ran into such soft earth that the horse couldn't go on. Setting the brake and looping the lines, Isaac jumped down. As she started to follow, he lifted her and swung her to the ground. He seized her hand and started up the path into the woods.

Judith hurried along, trying to keep up with his long, rapid strides. Their feet scuffed through the remnants of seasons' worth of fallen leaves, and the trees here were tall enough to form a canopy over their heads.

She was winded by the time they reached the level, cleared ground that marked the old railroad bed. She tugged on Isaac's hand.

“If he's there, hurrying isn't going to matter,” she gasped. And if he wasn't . . . She didn't want to think about that possibility. They could both imagine what might happen to an Amish fourteen-year-old out in the wider world with little experience of its dangers.

“Sorry.” Isaac finally looked at her as if he was seeing her. “You're right. I just—” He stopped, the tiny muscles around his eyes twitching with stress.

“I know. You want to find him. So do I.”
Please, Lord Jesus, keep him safe.
“I'm all right. Let's go on.”

He nodded and set off at a more reasonable pace on the level railroad bed that curved around the side of the mountain. The railroad had been abandoned years ago, the tracks removed, even the ties gradually picked up and used for other purposes. Only the level ground remained, carpeted with grass that managed to push up through the bed of cinders and gravel that marked where the rails had once been.

They'd picked blackberries here not long ago, the wild brambles seeming to like the edges of the rail bed. The boys had loved the excursion into the woods, and Joseph had promised to help them build a fort up here when they were a little older.

Joseph. Her heart clenched. He was so good with the younger ones, and they loved him so. She could only pray that some good would come out of Isaac's fear for his brother.

Their feet crunched along softly, an accompaniment to her prayers. They arrived at a spot where the ground fell away more sharply on the downhill side, and the woods were open enough to glimpse the stream below.

“It's not far now.” Isaac kept his voice soft. “Will you let me speak to him first?”

Will you,
not
I will
. She was too startled to answer for a moment, and she was almost afraid to speculate as to what it meant. “Of course,” she said, equally quiet.

He clasped her hand briefly, and then they went on. Another curve in the path, and she spotted the old log drag, slanting diagonally downward on the hillside above them. When the woods had been logged, the logs had been dragged down a natural crease in the hillside, deepening it with their passage.
It was still visible, even though young trees had started to sprout in the soft earth.

Judith's heart thudded. They would come within sight of Joseph's lean-to at any moment. If he was there, would he run when he spotted them?

And there it was. He'd made a good job of the building, cutting thick posts to form the front. The covering logs had been lashed together to form a fine roof.

Joseph was there. An old blanket lay on the ground. He sat on it, bending forward, his face in his hands, his whole body in an attitude of abject misery.

Judith longed to rush to the boy and gather him into her arms, but she obeyed the pressure of Isaac's hand. She let him go on alone, but she felt as if he took her heart with him.

Isaac's approach was quiet, and Joseph didn't look up until he'd nearly reached him. Joseph's eyes widened and he braced himself, but Isaac sank down to sit next to him on the blanket. Elbows on his knees, Isaac appeared to focus on his hands, linked in front of him.

“You found me.” Joseph's tone was so flat that Judith had no idea what he was feeling. She moved a few steps closer, as cautious as if she approached a deer in the woods.

Nodding, Isaac turned toward his brother slowly. “I had to. I have to tell you something—something I've never told to anyone.”

Clearly Joseph hadn't been expecting that from his brother. His expression lost a bit of its wariness. “What is it?”

Isaac took a deep breath and let it out. Judith couldn't see his face, but she could still sense his pain.

“Maybe I should have talked to you more about the family
all this time. I guess I got in the habit of not saying anything, because it hurt too much to remember.” He shook his head. “That's not a very gut excuse.”

“I . . . I always wondered about them. About why you couldn't talk about them.” Joseph's voice wavered a little.

“Ja.” Isaac rubbed his forehead. “That last day, Mamm had had a birthday party for me. You were not even a year yet—too young to understand—but you laughed and clapped at the cake and the excitement.”

Judith had never heard that either, and she clutched the image to her heart—the family laughing around the table, the birthday cake and simple gifts, Isaac's young face relaxed and beaming.

“Somebody—one of the onkels, I think—made some comment about Daad having to start looking for a farm for me before too many years passed. I guess I must have looked funny at that, maybe because I'd never pictured living anywhere else.”

He wouldn't have, would he? This land, the farmhouse—that would have been most of his world then.

“Anyway, after everyone had gone and Daad and I were doing the chores together, he brought it up. Explained that he wouldn't be ready to retire to a grossdaadi haus yet when I'd probably be starting a family, so he'd saved up to buy a farm for me. He wanted to be sure everyone was taken care of. The girls would marry, and he'd help with whatever they needed, and then by the time you were grown, he and Mamm would be ready to let you and your family take over the farm.” Isaac paused, and Judith realized that had probably been the very last conversation he'd ever had with his father.

Her heart twisted. No wonder it had had such a profound effect on him all these years.

Joseph made an instinctive move back. “If you're saying this so—”

“Wait.” Isaac put a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to understand why I've felt the way I did. All I could see was that what Daad told me on the last night of his life had to be done. I've been so intent on it that I couldn't see anything else. Not until I realized I could lose the very person I was doing it for if I didn't change.” His voice was rough with emotion.

Joseph seemed to struggle, his face working as he fought to hold back tears. “I don't want to go away. I just want to do what I love.”

Isaac nodded, his hand still on his brother's shoulder. “Ja. I see that you have to be free to follow your own gifts. But the farm is always here, and the farm is always your home, no matter what you do. All right?”

For an instant no one moved. Then Joseph flung himself into his brother's arms. Isaac held him tightly, his head bowed over Joseph's. Judith wiped tears from her cheeks, thankfulness filling her heart.

Without letting go of his brother, Isaac held out his hand to her. She ran to them, her heart full, dropped to her knees, and put her arms around both of them.

Lancaster County, October 1953

I
t
was not exactly a celebration, but somehow people gathered at Mattie's house that evening, relieved and eager to hear exactly what they could expect from the school district now in the wake of that surprising agreement.

Mamm Becky and Rachel kept urging food on Mattie, as if she had been starved for days. Knowing it was an expression of love, Mattie took their hovering as best she could. She finally deflected them by suggesting that all these people might need coffee. Recalled to her usual hospitality, Mamm Becky scurried off to start a pot and slice up the pies, cakes, and breads that had apparently been arriving all day as word had spread of her arrest.

By the time the stream of buggies slowed, the farmhouse was filled to the bursting point. People kept asking Mattie questions, but she didn't seem to have any answers. All she really understood was that she had faced imprisonment and the Lord had rescued her. Maybe it hadn't been as dramatic as
the angel breaking open the cell doors for Paul and Silas, but she could see God's hand at work.

“Komm, settle, everyone.” The bishop spoke in Englisch, in deference to Pastor Colby, who had come in at Bishop Thomas's insistence. “We will try to explain what has happened and how our sister Mattie came to be delivered.”

Mattie was standing back against the wall with Mamm Becky and Rachel, and she could feel herself flush as every eye turned toward her. It wasn't usually the bishop's way to single anyone out, and she'd have been wonderful glad to escape it this time. After experiencing the stares of so many strangers this day, she was ready to hide even from the attention of those she knew best.

Adam, standing silently against the door, met her gaze. He gave her a reassuring smile that somehow helped her stand up to the scrutiny. He had been there throughout the ordeal, quiet and steady, thinking only of her. How did she begin to thank him for his faithfulness?

Leaning back in his chair, Bishop Thomas looked tired but pleased. Some of the lines that had marked his face in recent weeks seemed to have smoothed out, despite his fatigue. He waited until silence fell.

“I know it wonders you how we got to where we are today,” he said. “We would not have such a happy resolution to our problems with the school district if it were not for the help of our Englisch friends.” He nodded gravely toward Pastor Colby.

It seemed to Mattie that the young pastor, who'd been so confident in the difficult surroundings of the court, was now a bit ill at ease, perhaps feeling that here he was the outsider.

“You know that we've been trying to come up with a plan that would satisfy the school laws but still allow us to keep to
our ways,” Bishop Thomas said. “It seems best for the future that we have our own schools, so that families have control over what our kinder are taught. But that takes time, and a quick resolution was needed for today's problem.” His face tightened. “I should have been more aware of what was coming. Then this might have been avoided.”

Pastor Colby cleared his throat. “I'm not sure even that would have helped. We wanted to find common ground, but there were some who were so sure of the rightness of their cause that perhaps it took something shocking to change them.”

He paused, and the bishop nodded for him to continue.

“I confess that I, as a school board member, was ignorant of the particular needs of the Amish children in our district until the struggle escalated. The night when so many of you attended the board meeting opened my eyes, and maybe the eyes of others on the board. We should have acted more quickly then, but it took some time just to rally together. I think most of us had no idea the issue would reach the point that parents were arrested for doing what they considered right for their children.”

Strange, that none of them had been able to foresee it, Mattie thought. With the memory of young Amish men forced into conscientious objector camps far from home so fresh in their minds, they should have.

“In any event, once I and a few others began talking about finding a solution, we realized that part of our problem came from the fact that we were a new, consolidated board, with members who were far removed from the small, local boards it replaced. When we seemed to reach a stalemate, it occurred to me that former members of that local board might be
helpful, and so they were. I believe that when they began lodging their concerns with the new board, people listened.”

Several heads around the room nodded at that point. Most of them knew the members of the old board—farmers, for the most part, people like themselves who understood more of Amish ways.

“People of good will can find a common ground,” Bishop Thomas said. “But it takes time and patience.”

Pastor Colby nodded, seeming to regain his confidence as he spoke. “I believe Walter Graham was already beginning to have doubts about his position, but pride made it difficult to back down. Then Mrs. Lapp was arrested.” He glanced toward her, and again Mattie felt like shrinking into a corner. Rachel put her arm around her mamm's waist, and the simple gesture reminded Mattie to be strong for her children.

“I'm sure this was a terrible experience for Mrs. Lapp,” he went on, “but I believe it was pivotal in changing minds. The image of a young Amish widow being taken into the jail by police officers brought an outpouring of criticism from people who had remained silent until then, prompting a change of heart.”

People who had remained silent until then.
Pastor Colby was speaking of Mrs. Graham, even though he didn't know. And Mattie wouldn't tell him. Mrs. Graham wouldn't like it. She had acted quietly, behind the scenes, and Mattie felt sure she was content.

“And so we reached a settlement,” Bishop Thomas said. “Thanks be to God.”

There was a moment of respectful silence before a question was raised.

“What exactly does it mean that the fourteen-year-olds must study at home under the district's supervision?” The questioner was Josiah Kile, one of those who had served his days in jail already. “Are we going to have someone looking over our shoulders all the time?”

Bishop Thomas and Pastor Colby seemed to defer to each other for a moment, and then the Englischer answered. “I don't know exactly, but I've received a promise that the details will be worked out with the help of Bishop Thomas and the district's ministers. I think most likely the students will have to report to a teacher every week or two about what they're learning.”

“My thinking is that a scholar who is learning to run a dairy farm or working with a seamstress might be expected to tell about their jobs or keep a journal,” Bishop Thomas added. “That seems reasonable to me.”

That seemed to satisfy Josiah, and Mattie exchanged glances with Rachel. She would be able to do what she'd always planned, then.

Pastor Colby smiled. “Someone expressed concern that the young people be educated so that they would not become a burden to the taxpayers.” His smile widened. “I've learned enough in recent weeks to assure them that no Amish person, educated or not, has
ever
become a burden to the public in the history of the county. That seemed to satisfy them.”

It was a truth so evident to every Amish person in the room that it was difficult to imagine others not understanding. The Amish took care of their own. That would never change, no matter how the world changed around them.

There were a few more questions, a little more talk, but finally people seemed satisfied. They began to drift away,
many pausing to squeeze Mattie's hand or whisper a word of affection. She was almost too tired to respond. It had begun to seem as if this day had lasted forever.

But when everyone was gone and the kinder were safely asleep in their own beds, Mattie felt herself at loose ends. There was something yet to be said, yet to be done, and she knew very well what it was.

She stepped out onto the back porch, letting the light from the kitchen pour out onto the worn boards. Adam was there, sitting in the porch swing, waiting, as she'd known he would be. She went and sat beside him, as sure as a horse headed back to its familiar stall after a long journey.

“It's over now,” he said, just as he had done in the magistrate's court. “You don't have to worry.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes briefly, searching for the right words to say. She had hurt Adam when she turned down his proposal of marriage, and she'd misread his feelings, just as she'd misread her own. Now she had to find the courage to make the first move.

“You have been such a gut friend through all of this trouble.” It was true, but it wasn't enough. She could feel him waiting, patient as always. “I . . . I was wrong to dismiss your feelings that day when we stood beneath the willow tree.”

She glanced toward the tree, unable to see it in the dark but knowing it was there, just as she always knew that Adam was there.

“My feelings are the same now as they were that day.” He seemed to make an effort to speak lightly, but his voice roughened on the words. “I shouldn't have rushed things, but I was afraid for you.”

Afraid. How often had she been afraid? Afraid she couldn't manage on her own, afraid to try something new because she might fail, afraid even to trust her own feelings.

She had been afraid when she'd stood in the court that day, but God had given her the strength to do what was right. Surely that courage might carry over to this moment, when it meant so much.

Mattie turned, looking up into his face, which was clear in the light from the kitchen window and so familiar and so dear to her. “I don't want you to marry me because you think I need your help and protection.” Somehow the words came out. “There must be a bigger reason.”

Relief spread across his face, and his lips curved just a little. “Mattie, Mattie, don't you know yet? I love you. I don't want to marry you just to take care of you. I want us to take care of and love each other for all the years the good Lord gives us.”

All her caution fled away at the look in his eyes. He loved her. She loved him. Not in exactly the way she had loved Ben, but she wasn't the same person now that she had been then. She smiled, seeing Ben's dearly loved face in her thoughts. Ben would not feel betrayed. Ben would be happy for them.

“That's gut.” She reached up to touch his face, feeling the softness of his beard and the warmth of his skin under her hand. “Because love is too important to waste, and that's what I want, too.”

Joy seemed to shimmer between them. Adam bent his head to kiss her—a solemn kiss that began in serious promise and surged into desire. Mattie turned more fully into his arms. She wasn't a
shy teenager any longer, and she wouldn't act like one. She was a woman who had found someone to love who loved her.

The kiss ended on a soft chuckle from Adam. He drew her against him, so that her head rested on his shoulder. “Let's hope the bishop will agree to set a date as soon as possible after Fall Communion.”

Mattie put her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beating of his heart. “I think we will be able to convince him.”

“He probably knows already.” He kissed her temple, his lips warm and inviting. “Bishop Thomas doesn't miss much.”

She snuggled closer, feeling his arms tighten around her, strong and secure. “The kinder will be happy. The way they turn to you already—that should have told me that we belonged together.”

“I love them,” he said simply. “I will try to be the best father I can to them. And to any more babies that come along.”

He was thinking as she was, then. She'd been a little concerned, fearing that what had happened to his wife and baby might have made him afraid. They would have children together, and that would be a special joy that wouldn't lessen their joy in the children they already had.

Thinking of kinder made her think of the school situation, and she sighed.

“Regrets already?” Adam teased, catching her mood instantly.

“Never.” She touched his lips lightly with hers. “I was thinking that the struggle over how we raise our young ones might not be over yet.”

“No, I'm sure it's not.” He laid his cheek against her head. “There will be trials ahead. It will never be easy to live Amish
in an Englisch world. But whatever comes, we will face it together, ain't so?”

“Together,” she said, and it was a promise.

•   •   •

Judith
was washing the dishes, and Levi and Paul were squabbling about whose turn it was to dry. She smiled at the familiar complaints. Things were back to normal in their home if the greatest worry was who dried the dishes.

“I know, I know,” she said, swatting the dish towel at them. “If you had a sister, you would not have to dry dishes, but since you don't, you will take turns helping. Paul, you know very well it is your turn.”

Paul tried to pout, but it turned into a grin. “I was just fooling, Mammi.”

She couldn't help returning the smile, even though she knew she should chide him. “Try not to drop anything this time,” she said.

“I do try, Mammi. The plates are just so slippery.” He picked one up gingerly. “Maybe we could get a girl baby the next time.”

“Maybe,” Isaac said, laying his newspaper on the table. “In the meantime, it's important for all of us to help Mammi, ain't so?”

Paul nodded, his small face serious under the strength of his father's gaze.

“Gut.” Isaac took the dish towel from his hands and gave him a gentle shove. “You two take Noah outside and play with him for a bit before time for bed. I'll help Mammi with the dishes.”

She'd been thinking she had to be a little cautious with Isaac
and Joseph both after all the emotions of the day, but Isaac, at least, seemed to have his feelings well in hand. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that he had gained a peace and acceptance she hadn't seen in him for a long time.