The Rescued (11 page)

She waited for his nod before she ran to the outside faucet and turned the water full on. The hose wasn't long enough to get to the burn barrel, because Isaac had used the extension for something a few days earlier. But maybe the spray would be strong enough to reach the flames.

Above her head, the dinner bell began its clamor, thanks to
Noah's love of making a noise. Anyone within earshot would know the prolonged sound meant trouble.

Dragging the hose, Judith hurried across the yard. “Isaac, the shed. The roof.”

His head turned, giving her a brief glimpse of his face, which was as white as Levi's had been.
Fire.
The word alone must be enough to bring his horrific memories surging back.

He snatched the hose from her hands, trying to concentrate the spray onto the shed roof, so Judith took over beating at the ground fire with the shovel. They could ignore the barrel at the moment, since the fire there was contained and already dying down. But the flames that had caught the grass were moving fast—too fast. They seemed to flatten out at every strike but then spring back up again, shooting higher each time as if they enjoyed the battle with her.

“Never mind that. It's doing no good.” Isaac grabbed the shovel. “Bring buckets.”

For an instant her mind didn't seem to work. Feed buckets. The barn. That would be closest. She ran for the barn, the bell still clanging. Someone shouted from a distance, but she didn't dare stop long enough to look. A moment's delay could mean the difference between saving or endangering a structure.

Thank God none of the animals were inside. They'd be safe enough in the pasture, even if the flames should get this far. Grabbing the stack of rubber feed pails, she hurried back outside.
Please, God, please, God
 . . . The prayer kept time with the wild beating of her heart.

Fill the buckets, carry them to Isaac, run back for more while Isaac threw the water on the flames, and all the while the fire crept stubbornly along the shed roof and down the walls. The shed, the
diesel generator inside—if they lost the generator, what would they do?

Arms aching, she was filling another bucket when someone seized it from her. Onkel Simon pushed her gently away.

“We will do it. Keep the kinder safe.”

She stumbled back a step, realizing that his son Lige was with him, while from the other direction the neighbors came running. Half crying, she grasped Paul and Levi and drew them toward the house.

“I can help.” Levi tried to pull away, but she held him firmly.

“No. You heard what Onkel Simon said. The men will do it.” She took them back to the porch where Noah still stood on his chair, his face red, pulling the bell rope as fast as his little arms could move.

Judith put her arms around him, stilling the sound. “Gut work. It's enough now. Everyone heard. They're all helping.”

They were. But the flames ate into the generator shed despite their efforts. By the time the fire truck came screaming down the lane, siren wailing, the shed was little more than a heap of black, smoking rubbish.

Judith had to restrain Paul and Noah from running after the fire truck. “They've come to fight the fire. You can watch from here.”

“But, Mammi, it's the real fire truck,” Paul protested. “I want to see it up close.”

“Ja, but the volunteers have work to do. We mustn't get in their way. Look, here comes your grossmammi.” It was actually her mamm, daad, and three other relatives, and she couldn't imagine how they'd heard about the fire so quickly. The young ones' eyes were mostly for their beloved grossmammi.

Mamm climbed down from the buggy, and the two younger boys hurried to help with the containers she began unloading, while Daad, her brother, and two of her cousins ran toward the fire.

Levi seemed to linger by the porch, and Judith frowned. Normally he would be the first one to rush to his grandmother. What was wrong with the boy?

“I had a coffee cake and some shoofly pie left from my baking, so I brought them.” Mamm carried a gallon jug of lemonade while the boys toted the baked goods. “We'd best get ready to feed the helpers.”

The reminder galvanized Judith. She couldn't stand here staring. Fighting a fire was hot, dirty work. The least she could do was have some cold drinks ready for the men. “We can set things up on the picnic table. If we all help, I think we can move it closer to the house so it won't be in anyone's way.”

With her improvised crew, she edged the heavy wooden picnic table away from the path of the fire hoses and then hurried into the house to start a pot of coffee and slice the loaves of nut bread she'd made earlier. The young ones trotted along to help, jabbering away about the fire and stopping to exclaim when the stream of water arced from the pumper's hose to put out the flames that had survived the determined assault of the men.

“The flames went so high, Grossmammi,” Noah said, lifting his fingers above his head. “It was scary.”

“I wasn't scared,” Paul said quickly. “I ran as fast as I could to get Onkel Simon.”

“Well, I rang the bell.” Noah was determined to claim his grandmother's attention.

“You were all gut helpers,” Judith said firmly.

“That's right,” Mamm said, smiling at her grandsons. “I know you all did everything you could to help.”

“Levi used the phone to call for the fire truck.” Judith glanced at her oldest, feeling a little surprised that he hadn't chimed in with his own claim.

Levi was looking out the back door, hands pressed against the screen. Something about his rigid figure made Judith's heart twist.

“Levi?” She went to put her hand gently on his shoulder.

He tensed. “If the barn burns, what will we do?”

Judith tried to hug him against her, but his small body was stiff. She exchanged a worried look with her mamm. “It won't.” She put all the confidence she could find into the words. “The men had the grass fire almost out even before the fire truck arrived. Look, you can see that they are wetting down the barn with the big hose now. They won't let it burn.”

Levi seemed to strain against the door for another moment, but then he nodded. “They won't let it burn,” he repeated, as if it were a promise.

Was he worrying about the animals? But he knew as well as she did that they'd all been turned out to pasture already.

“Komm and help with the food,” she urged. “You can carry things out to the picnic table. The men will be glad of a drink and something to eat.”

Rejoining her mother, Judith took a tray from the cupboard and began putting glasses on it, keeping a wary eye on Levi. But he took the plate his grossmammi had ready and carried it carefully out the back door.

“He's worried,” Judith murmured.

“Ach, it's scary for sure,” Mamm said. “Fire always is. How did it start? Do you know?”

“I'm not sure.” It was the first moment she'd been able to think about it, and she realized how strange it was. “I heard Isaac shout and ran out to see the burn barrel blazing. Bits of paper flew out and touched off the fire on the grass and the shed roof.”

Mamm turned a disapproving glance on her. “Don't you use a screen on the barrel?”

“Ja, of course we do.”

Mamm seemed about to argue, but she glanced at the kinder. “Best we don't talk about it now, ain't so? They might think . . .” She let the sentence trail off, but Judith knew where it had been going.

The young ones knew something about the fire that had destroyed their daadi's home when he was young. It was impossible to keep the story from them. But they seldom mentioned it, and she wasn't sure how much that might be a part of Levi's upset.

Luckily the cookie jar was full. Judith arranged snickerdoodles and chocolate chip cookies on a large tray and sent the boys out with it. She and her mother followed, carrying glasses and beverages.

A few trips were enough to get everything out on the table, and by then one or two of the volunteer firemen were ready for a break.

“Fire's out now.” Jim Reilly, head of the local volunteers, nodded with satisfaction. “We'll wet it down a bit more, just so you won't have to worry, but it's out.”

“I don't know what we'd do without you and the other
firemen.” Isaac was a member of the volunteer fire company, and Joseph soon would be. That was how Isaac had known exactly how to fight the blaze.

Jim shrugged, mopping his red face. “It wasn't much of a fire, but enough to give the boys a little practice. Sorry about the shed. If we'd gotten here a bit faster—”

“Don't think that,” Judith said quickly. “It burned so fast no one could have done anything.”

“Yeah, those old planks go up like tinder when they catch a spark,” he said. “Sorry. Anything valuable in there?” Jim, knowing the Amish, would realize they didn't have insurance on anything.

Her throat tightened. “The diesel generator was there. It's gone completely.”

And without a generator, they couldn't run the automatic milking machine or the bulk milk tank. The dairy they sold their milk to would have to be told. Isaac would be terribly upset.

“Mighty sorry for the loss.” Jim's bluff, hearty face expressed regret even as she sensed he'd enjoyed the small excitement of putting out the fire. “We'll make sure there's no sparks left before we take off.”

“Denke.” Her worried gaze sought out Isaac. When she spotted him, the breath caught in her throat. He stood glaring at Joseph, clutching him by the shoulder, fury in every line of his body.

Fairly running across the lawn, she reached him in time to hear his angry words. “. . . trust you with a simple job like burning the trash, and you can't even do that right. You realize what you did? Without the generator, we'll lose the contract with the dairy.”

Onkel Simon put a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Isaac shook it off, probably not even realizing who it was. Joseph's face twisted. “I didn't. You blame me for everything, but I didn't do it.”

He hadn't, she realized. He hadn't even been here. The scooter lay by the porch where he'd dropped it, but he hadn't been anywhere around when the fire must have started.

“Who else—” Isaac began.

“Isaac, stop,” she said quickly, the words racing ahead of her thoughts. But there was only one way this could have happened. “Joseph didn't start the fire.” She focused on Levi's small face, dreading the fact that she had to say the words. “Levi, do you want to tell Daadi something?”

Levi was white, his face strained, his fists clenched. His mouth trembled as he nodded, and he swallowed hard. “I'm sorry, Daadi. I'm sorry, Mammi. I didn't mean it. When I brought the trash out, I thought I could help. I thought I could burn the trash as well as Joseph could.”

Isaac let go of his brother, his face tightening. “How did this happen?” Judith had the feeling the question was addressed to her as well as to Levi.

“I had Levi take the kitchen trash out so that Joseph could burn it later, after the wind died down. I guess Levi wanted to help.”

Wanted to show what a big boy he was, she suspected. He always wanted to show his daadi that he was big enough to contribute to the farm.

Isaac stooped to his son's level. “Is that what happened, Levi?”

The boy nodded miserably, blinking back tears. “I thought
I could do it. The screen was sehr heavy. I guess I didn't get it back on far enough.”

“You must never do something like that without asking first.” Isaac ran his hands down Levi's arms, and Judith knew he was trying not to picture Levi with his clothes ablaze. “It is much too dangerous.”

“Ach, the boy knows it now.” Onkel Simon interrupted him, putting one hand on Joseph's shoulder. “There's nothing to be done but to get the cows milked by hand. We've got plenty of willing workers here, so we'd best get at it.” He nudged Joseph along. “We'll start them moving to the tie-stall barn, ain't so?”

Joseph looked as if he was ready to burst out with something, but he met his uncle's gaze and nodded.

“Right.” The old man and the boy moved off together. The rest of the men, knowing what was needed without asking, headed for the tie-stall barn. Their neighbors and relatives would be here to help with the milking as long as they were needed.

But judging by the bleak expression on Isaac's face, that was small comfort to a man who'd just seen a crucial part of his business go up in smoke.

Still, that was no excuse for his having jumped to the conclusion that Joseph was to blame. How could the trouble between them ever heal if Isaac lost his temper that way?

Lancaster County, August 1953

S
ummer
was fading into autumn, and still there was no resolution to the school conflict. Adam, perched on a branch of the apple tree in Mattie's small orchard, picked another ripe apple and dropped it to Toby, waiting below.

“Me, me,” Anna squealed, bouncing on bare feet under the tree. “Throw one to me, Cousin Adam.”

“The next one is for you,” he promised. Reaching over his head, he found an especially bright red one and tossed it gently. Anna, apparently not trusting her small hands, caught it in her apron and raced to the basket they were filling.

Adam could only thank the gut Lord that the younger kinder didn't seem to be affected by the burden that pressed on the adults. He'd felt for days as he did when a storm brewed in the western sky. There was the same sense of black clouds massing, the same weight of heavy air and rumbles of thunder. Everywhere he went, he was greeted with worried distraction by the Leit and a kind of open suspicion by the Englisch.

“More apples,” Toby demanded. “Rachel and Nate have their basket almost full.”

Adam was just as glad to be distracted from his thoughts. “Right. Here they come.”

He sped up, picking faster. As Toby had said, Nate and Rachel made a quick team, with Nate in the tree picking steadily while Rachel's deft hands sorted the apples as they went into the baskets. They were working in the McIntosh tree—Mattie especially prized those apples for sauce, so any bruised ones could be used for it.

“Mind the apples don't have a bad spot before you put them into the keeping basket,” he charged his helpers. “One bad one in the bottom can spoil the whole basket, ain't so?”

Toby nodded solemnly, but Anna looked up at him with her bright curiosity showing. “Why? How can it do that?”

He grinned down at her, softening as always at the sight of this child who was what his little Sarah might have become. “If one apple in the bunch isn't sound, that spoiled spot spreads to the other apples around it, making them go bad as well. Understand?”

Anna considered for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied. “I'll be careful. I'll look at every single one.”

“Gut girl.” He supposed, in a way, that was what they were trying to do in preventing their impressionable children from being sent off to the big consolidated school. Even one Amish child who succumbed to the lure of fancy clothes or drinking or even doubting their Creator could infect those around them.

Be ye separate from the world.
That was the Biblical instruction the Amish followed, but right now the Englisch seemed
determined to force change on them even when they were convinced it ran counter to their faith.

He glanced at Rachel. She was laughing up at Nate, looking as sweet and wholesome as always. But he'd seen the worry and doubt in her face when she thought no one was watching her. This situation was especially hard on her.

“Are you thinking or picking, Adam Lapp?” Mattie's voice, coming from below him, startled him so that he jerked and nearly lost his balance.

“Careful,” she cried, her tone sharp with worry. Not all of it was for him, he knew.

“I'm fine.” He tossed an apple down to her to demonstrate, and she fielded it easily. “Gut catch.”

“I'm not that out of practice,” Mattie retorted. “I could probably climb that tree as well as you.”

He leaned down toward her, grinning. “Dare you.”

For an instant it seemed she'd take him up on it, her face laughing and as young as Rachel's. Then she glanced at the young ones and shook her head. “Better not. I have an example to set, ain't so?”

But the kinder had caught the tone of the conversation. “Do it, Mammi,” Rachel said. The others joined in, making so much noise that Mattie put her hands over her ears.

“All right, all right. I'll do it just this once.” Almost before Adam realized what she was about, Mattie had caught a branch, put her foot in the fork of the tree, and hoisted herself up.

“Careful.” He reached out to catch her arm, holding her securely.

Mattie wrapped one arm around the trunk of the apple tree, laughing. Leaves draped over her head, and one apple hung next
to her shoulder as if it had perched there. Leaf-dappled sunlight filtered through the branches to gild her fair skin with gold.

He had to say something. He couldn't just stare at her like a gawking tourist. “What will your mamm have to say to me if I let you fall?”

“Probably that a woman my age shouldn't be so foolish as to go climbing trees.” Amusement touched her eyes and her gaze caught his—caught and held—and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

Mattie was as dear to him as she'd always been, but now he felt more for her, so much more. Emotion stirred between them, thickening the air and making his heartbeat thunder in his ears.

And Mattie felt it, too. It was there in the startled expression darkening her eyes and the way her lips parted. In a moment—

“Throw down an apple, Mammi!” Toby shouted. Mattie jerked back against Adam's arm, breaking the spell. He glanced down, away from her, afraid she'd read too much in his eyes.

Rachel gave Toby a slight shove, and he shot her an indignant look. “What'd you do that for?”

“You shouldn't interrupt grown-ups,” she scolded.

“But they weren't talking.” Toby's lower lip came out, and he looked prepared to continue the argument.

“Never mind,” Mattie said hastily. “I'm coming down. We'll let Adam and Nate do the tree-climbing.”

“It'll be time for milking soon.” Adam was talking at random, trying to cover up his confusion. Had Rachel actually recognized what was happening between them?

“Why don't we just finish up the trees you're working on now? You've picked plenty of apples to keep me busy for a couple of days.” Mattie had reached the ground, and she bent to pick up a half-filled basket that had tipped on its side.

“Right.” Adam tried to focus on the apples within his reach. That seemed to be the only safe thing to think about at the moment.

By the time he slid down from the tree, both baskets were full and he'd regained his composure enough to smile normally at Mattie. “Be sure you save me some applesauce,” he said.

“I will, but I can do better than that after you helped the kinder pick all these apples. How about an apple crumble pie?”

“Yum. Your mamm makes wonderful gut apple crumble pie, ain't so?” He tapped the top of Nate's straw hat and got an instant grin.

“Save some for us,” Nate said. “Don't eat it all.”

“You kids run and get the wagon to take the baskets down,” Mattie said. “I'll make sure there's plenty of pie for everyone.”

Rachel grabbed Anna's hand. “Komm. We'll race the boys.”

The four of them dashed down the gentle slope toward the barn, with Rachel suiting her long stride to the small steps of her little sister.

He smiled, watching them, but then he noticed Mattie's expression. She was looking at Rachel, and the worry was back in her face.

“No news?” he asked gently.

Mattie shrugged. “You know how the pastor on the school board said something about private schools? The bishop spoke to him after the meeting, and he thinks if we start our own schools, the board might leave us alone.”

He considered the idea and found it growing on him. “It might be the only answer. As long as our kinder were going to the little school down the road with other farm kids, it didn't
matter so much who was Englisch and who was Amish. We all understood each other. But now it's different.”

“I keep thinking about how bad feelings were when the war started and the Englisch thought our boys should go for soldiers.” Mattie turned wide, frightened eyes on him. “Rachel isn't old enough to remember what it was like. But I remember the mean things people said and how some of the neighbors stopped buying our produce. Is it going to be that way again?”

Adam had to be honest. “I don't know. I hope not. But our promise not to use violence against any person was important enough to cling to no matter what happened.”

He found he was struggling to articulate his deepest beliefs. The Amish didn't generally talk much about what they believed and why. They just lived their faith.

“Maybe this situation is similar to that one. Sending our kinder out of our community and teaching them things that are contrary to our beliefs—this might be another breaking point between us and the world.”

Mattie closed her eyes for a moment, and he thought she was reaching out in prayer. Finally she looked at him and made an effort to smile. “We were brought up on the stories of the martyrs, ain't so? I just never thought we would have to be the ones to make a stand.”

“I know.” His voice was husky with the pain he felt. It wasn't fair—that was all he could think. Mattie had struggled through the loss of Ben and tried so hard to raise their kinder on her own. It wasn't fair that she had to face so much trouble and make such difficult choices.

More than anything else, he wanted to protect and care for
Mattie and her children. But how could he ever find a balance between his loyalty to Ben and his own desires?

•   •   •

The
acrid smell of burning lingered in the air as Judith went through the nightly routine of settling the boys in bed. Getting everyone bathed had been a chore, with soot everywhere. The soot-covered laundry could wait until tomorrow, but her sons had to be clean.

She tucked a sheet over Noah, who was asleep already after all the excitement. In the other twin bed of the room they shared, Paul was letting his eyes drift shut, even as he still tried to talk about the fire truck.

“Shh.” She patted Paul gently. “Tomorrow is another day. Go to sleep and dream about being one of the fire volunteers.”

He seemed to snuggle the idea close as he turned to curl up on his side. In a moment he was sound asleep.

Judith stood, stretching, tired as much from the stress of the fire as anything else, she supposed. She hadn't really had much to do once the initial flurry of trying to hold back the flames had been taken over by the men.

When she'd finally gone back into the house after the fire truck had left, she'd discovered her kitchen counters and refrigerator filled with food—the inevitable Amish answer to trouble. Word must have spread at the speed of light. More and more folks had shown up to help or to bring supper, until there had been more volunteers than there had been jobs to do.

She stopped at the window in the hallway on her way to the bedroom shared by Levi and Joseph. Most people had gone home by now, promising to be back for the morning milking,
but she could still hear the low rumble of male voices from outside.

They were probably trying to figure out a way to save the milk, but she feared there wasn't a solution. Isaac had sent jugs home with everyone who could take it, but the rest would have to be dumped—such a terrible waste. The dairy couldn't take the milk unless it had been properly handled, and without the generator that was impossible.

If the dairy decided to cancel their contract . . .

She stopped her thoughts from heading in that direction and turned instead to a silent prayer of thankfulness. No one had been injured. The dairy herd was fine. What had happened was part of God's will for them, and they must accept, even when it was difficult.

Judith moved to the other bedroom and opened the door quietly, hoping Levi had been exhausted enough to fall asleep. He hadn't, of course. He was sitting up in bed, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring at nothing. His brooding expression was so like the one Isaac sometimes wore that it shook her.
Please don't let him shut me out the way Isaac does.

Levi looked up when she came in but then resumed his study of the footboard of his bed. Sighing a little, she squeezed onto the bed next to him, leaning against the headboard and putting her arm around his shoulders. His little body felt stiff against her for a moment, and then he seemed to relax, turning his face into her sleeve.

“It's all right, you know,” she said, stroking his hair. “Everyone understands that it was just an accident.”

He shook his head a little. “Daadi will think I was dumb.”

“Ach, Levi, don't say such a thing. Daadi doesn't think that
at all. He knows you were trying to help. He's just wonderful glad you weren't hurt by the fire, and it makes him scared. You know that, don't you?”

He hesitated and then nodded, but her mother's instinct told her there was more going on.

“Komm, now. Tell me what is troubling you. Things never seem so bad once we've shared them with someone who loves us.”

“I wanted to help. I did.” He pulled away enough to look at her, as if there was something she must understand.

“I know. Daadi knows, too.” She waited.

Levi looked down, sniffing a little as he held back tears. “I wanted Daadi to see that I'm big enough to help with the farm.”

Surprise held her immobile for an instant before she gathered her wits. “But you do help, Levi. You help with the milking, and Daadi is always saying how gut you are with the animals.”

He shook his head, not looking at her. “It's not enough.”

Why?
That was what she wanted to ask, but she held back the question.

“Levi, Daadi wants you to learn how to farm gradually. That's how a child is meant to learn. Your onkels and cousins all learned that way, taking on more and more responsibilities as they became older. You will, too.”

She could still feel him holding back from her, and she struggled to understand. He was worried. She could sense it. Finally she grasped his shoulders firmly, insisting he look at her. “You aren't telling me something. What is it?”