A Quilt for Jenna (7 page)

I must not cry or show emotion
, she thought. Her hands clenched the edge of the box, and as the grief rose in her she began to feel something she had never felt before—anger toward her God.

This is blasphemy
, said a strident voice within her, and she found herself trembling in fear as she stood there. She wanted to cry out or fall sobbing on Hannah's breast, but instead she gripped the coffin until her knuckles turned white. Then she felt her father's hand on her shoulder and heard his quiet voice in her ear.

“Come,
dochter
, we must let her go,” he said.

Slowly she let go of the coffin and stepped back. The four men picked up the box and walked slowly and silently out the door. Jerusha and her parents and brothers followed. Outside, a long row of wagons and buggies was stretched along the road. The coffin was placed into the hearse, and the pallbearers climbed on board. The wagon started off at a slow pace, and the mourners stirred up their horses and fell into line. The solemn caravan began to make its way south toward Millersburg and the Amish cemetery. The twenty-mile journey took three hours, and Jerusha dreaded every minute. The rising of the sun burned off the early morning coolness. Jerusha felt the sun's heat on her back. Ahead of them was a wagon with a family she didn't recognize. She leaned over to her mother and asked, “Who are those people, Mama?”

“That's the Springer family. Mr. Springer is a widower with two sons. He's come from Wooster to court Abigail Verkler, who lost her husband last year.”

Jerusha looked with curiosity at the buggy ahead. She could tell that the woman in the buggy was Abigail, for her mourning clothes didn't conceal her small stature and stout body. The man seated beside her wore the black broad-brimmed hat peculiar to her people. Seated in the back of the buggy were two boys, one a young man already. They stared straight ahead, their longish hair curling out from under their hats.

The miles crept by, and Jerusha found herself thinking about the moment of anger she had felt while she was standing by the coffin. She felt ashamed that such a strong emotion should arise in her heart. She had always been a child of God, and to feel anger toward Him was a new and puzzling sensation.

Will I have hope of salvation if I show anger toward God? I've tried to be a good and faithful girl. I know He died for me, and I hope I'm saved, but can I offend Him enough that He would keep me out of heaven?

She pondered on that for a while until the rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves lulled her to sleep on her mother's shoulder.

They arrived at the cemetery at midday. The graveyard was on a private farm because her people didn't like being buried with the
Englisch
. The people climbed out of their wagons and buggies and slowly made their way to the simple farm building where the service was to be held.

The pallbearers carried the coffin to the front of the room, placed it on two sawhorses, and opened it so the family could view Hannah one last time. None of the mourners showed any emotion as they sat on the simple benches. A
Volliger Diener
, a bishop, delivered the two-hour sermon in Pennsylvania Dutch. His words were not a eulogy of Hannah and her goodness but rather an exhortation to give thanks and praise to God. No one shared stories about Hannah, but Jerusha wished she could go up to the front and tell everyone how much her grandmother meant to her. At the end of the service, the bishop mentioned Hannah's name, the name of her husband, and her birth and death date, and that was the end.

Jerusha looked around at the people, and to her surprise, she felt the anger rising in her again.

She was so good to me
,
Lord
, she prayed.
Why did You take her from me in such a horrible way? Did I do something wrong? Are You punishing me?

She wished with all her heart that the people would cry out and throw themselves weeping on her grandmother's coffin, but the room was still as the pallbearers picked up the pine box and carried it out to the gravesite. Small beams of light came through cracks in the wall and lit up the dust motes floating in the air.

There was no music. The shuffling of feet on the dirt floor made the only sound in the simple farm building as the people followed the coffin out. Breathing hard, Jerusha leaned forward and slowly stood to her feet with her elbows bent and her fists clenched. Just as she was about to scream the name of her grandmother, a firm hand took hold of her shoulder, and she heard a quiet voice say in her ear, “Don't.”

Jerusha turned slowly and saw the chest of someone very tall. She lifted her head and looked into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Dark, long hair framed a face that was remarkable in its symmetry and strength. The black hat, tilted back on his head, gave the young man a slightly rakish look. Behind the stern set of his face, Jerusha saw that his eyes were kind toward her.

“I know you want to scream, but don't,” he whispered. “My mother died last year, and I wanted to scream at her funeral too. Believe me, now is not the time.”

In the grip of his strong hand, Jerusha felt the tension and anger drain out of her, leaving an empty, aching sorrow, and then she found herself walking slowly along with him out to the grave.

The bishop who led the funeral went ahead of the mourners to the graveyard. When all had gathered beside the grave site, he gave a final prayer, and the pallbearers closed Hannah Hershberger's coffin for the last time. They placed ropes under the coffin and used them to lower the coffin into the ground. Members of Jerusha's family stepped forward and threw a handful of earth onto the coffin. Jerusha stood a long time with the dirt in her hand before she dropped it into the grave. When the clod hit the top of her grandmother's coffin, it sounded like a door slamming. A knife twisted in her heart as in that moment she came to grips with the reality of death and its finality. Jersusha stepped back, and as the mourners watched, the pallbearers filled in the grave. And then it was over. There were no flowers or foliage near the grave. The plain tombstone lay on its side, waiting to be set in place.

Hannah Hershberger, 1862–1941, 79 years, 2 months, 5 days.

That was the summation of her grandmother's life. Somehow it seemed not enough.

As Jerusha slowly walked back to her father's buggy, the young man who had stopped her from crying out stepped in beside her and spoke to her. The sound of his voice was rich and masculine, and she suddenly felt herself blush. She plucked up her courage and looked into those startling blue eyes. They were still smiling at her, and then she heard his words coming to her as though from a long distance away, and slowly she realized what he was saying.

“I'm Reuben Springer, and you're the girl who makes those quilts,” he said. Then he turned and walked back to the road.

The upside-down car teetered back and forth in the wind like an old rocking chair. Inside, buried in a pile of clothing, blankets, and a seat cushion, lay the little girl. She had reddish-blonde hair and a determined chin. Her skin was blue from the cold, and over the hours she passed in and out of consciousness. The front of the car lifted up, settled down again, and then lifted up again. The wind blew harder and then eased off. The car moved a little, sliding a few inches more out onto the ice. The snow had blanketed the surface of the pond, hiding the hole that had been there only hours before.

As the car rocked gently, a picture came into the little girl's mind. She was warm and safe in her mama's arms, and her mother was singing a song as she gently rocked back and forth, back and forth.

Suddenly the wind picked up again, and a strong gust hit the car. The front end reared up like a horse and then smashed back down onto the ice. The ice groaned and cracked, and then a small fracture began to run out from under the front of the car like a lightning bolt.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Changes

I
N THE SPRING OF
1941, distant rumblings of the conflict in Europe had come to Apple Creek from time to time, but for the most part the Plain People did not involve themselves in discussions about England's battle against the Nazis. Their firm belief in nonresistance precluded any discussion of a possible global war. The people remembered that in World War I the government had drafted Amish men, but most refused to fight, and the whole community had suffered persecution and scorn as a result.

And now, before another war erupted, the elders of the faith were working with the government to provide honorable alternatives to actual combat. However, the possibility of being forced into combat was a source of some concern among the young people. Even so, on this lovely spring morning, thoughts of the war and the world outside Apple Creek were far from Jerusha's mind.

Jerusha hadn't seen Reuben Springer since her grandmother's funeral, but she thought about him often. She remembered his gentle touch and soothing voice. She especially remembered his deep blue eyes and the effect they had on her. She was bothered that someone of the opposite sex could command her thoughts the way he did, for she had kept herself apart from the company of young men, even at the Sunday night singings, where discrete courtship was encouraged for young people past the age of sixteen.

Jerusha had no interest in marriage. Her life was centered in her family, the dawn-to-dusk work of a farmer's daughter, and quilting. As a result, this newcomer's constant intrusion into her thoughts was aggravating. Yet she also found her heart being stirred in a way she had never known before. She remembered the smile hidden behind his stern eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, and the easy, confident way he carried himself. Jerusha was not a young woman without passion and had experienced moments of deep love and wonder in her young life—for her family, for her God, for the beauty of a sunset, for her grandmother. But these feelings she had when she thought of Reuben were unlike anything she had ever known. In one moment they were deep and still, like her father's millpond at sunset, and the next minute they would carry her over rushing rapids, tumbling her thoughts and shaking the very foundations of her emotions.

And so it was that she was lost in reverie as she walked the familiar path into the village to visit the store, not paying attention to what was going on around her.

“Well, here's one of them Amish gals,” said a thick voice, startling her. Ahead of her on the path stood two men, one holding a half-empty bottle in his hand.

“And a mighty pretty one at that,” said the second man.

The first man stepped forward into Jerusha's path. He towered over her, his eyes bloodshot and his face grizzled with several days' growth of beard.

“They told us over in Indiana that there was some holy gals out here, unspoiled, so to speak,” the first man said. “But we didn't reckon they was as pretty as you.” He leered at Jerusha with a sly grin.

“Please excuse me so I can go about my business,” Jerusha said, uncertainty in her voice.

“Well, we was thinking we might go about some business with you, say...in those trees over there. Just a few minutes of your time, and then we'll be on our way. What say you?” As he spoke he reached out and caught Jerusha by the arm.

The second man, who was small and thin, had edged around behind her and suddenly clapped his hand over her mouth. “Like he said, just a few minutes of your time, darlin',” he whispered thickly in her ear, “and then we'll be off. We'll never tell, and you can keep your secret. It's mighty lonesome out on the road, and we're in great need of some female companionship.” His breath was foul, and he began to paw at her, his filthy hand fumbling at the snaps of her dress.