“Is there anything else you want to tell me about Ananias or Mia Stoltzfus?” I ask. “Anything at all?”
Irritation flares in his eyes. “I heard you were hardheaded and difficult.”
“Two things that have served me well.”
He looks past me, where his wife is standing at the counter, pretending to be immersed in the book.
“Close the door,” he says.
I rise and click it shut, then settle back into the folding chair.
“Being struck by the lot and becoming bishop is a weight to bear, Kate Burkholder. It is a blessing and gift. But it is also a burden that has broken many a strong man.”
I nod my understanding of that.
“My dawdi had a saying about speaking out of turn.” He switches to Deitsch. “Blessed are the ones who have nothing to say and cannot be persuaded to say it.”
I wait.
“It’s not easy to speak ill of a man, especially when he was your bishop. But that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Grimacing, he leans forward and shuts down the sewing machine. “The meting out of punishments is a weight to bear,” he says. “There is no enjoyment. Only duty. The call to do God’s will.”
I say nothing.
“Shortly after Ananias became bishop, there was a young Amish man in the congregation who worked at the mill in Lewistown. It was too far for him to drive his buggy every day, so he borrowed a car from an English friend. He didn’t own it, mind you, but drove it nonetheless. Ananias warned him, but the driving continued. A few weeks later, Ananias put him under the bann. In the end, that young man left.”
It’s not an unusual story. But it’s exactly the kind that could cause hard feelings. “You disagreed with the decision to bann the young man?”
“No. That young man had been warned and refused to comply. I would have done the same.” The bishop seems to look inward, remembering, his lips turned down as if he’s realized a bad taste. “But I was there the day Ananias excommunicated him. There were tears; this young man cried. He begged. Could something have been worked out?” The bishop shrugs. “Who knows?”
He raises his eyes to mine. “My point, Chief Burkholder, is that Ananias Stoltzfus enjoyed hurting that young man. He relished the tears. The begging. I saw the pleasure of it in his eyes. It was the kind of look a man gets when he has lust in his heart. That was the day I realized Ananias Stoltzfus was cruel.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I did nothing. I was young and inexperienced. Naïve.” He sags in the chair as if he’d failed a challenge he should have aced. “I didn’t have the courage to do the right thing. At the very least, I should have consulted with the Diener.” He looks down at his hands, but not before I see shame in his eyes. “I saw darkness in Ananias. I knew that darkness would cause problems. That one day there would be a reckoning.”
“Bishop Yoder, do you have any idea who killed him?”
He bristles. “You’re a fool, Kate Burkholder.”
I sigh. “So I’ve been told.”
He looks at me the way a teacher might look at an unruly student in need of a good paddling. “By the teachings of Christ, violence is prohibited. The taking of a life is the darkest of sins.”
“The Amish may be pacifists,” I tell him, “but they’re human, too. They have the same frailties as the rest of us.”
“Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk.
It’s a standoff. For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks. The time gives our respective tempers a chance to cool.
“Were there any other displays of cruelty?” I ask.
He picks up the leather strap and runs his thumb over the stitching. “There was talk.”
He raises his eyes to mine. In their depths I see a quicksilver glint. Shame? Guilt? Something else?
He looks away, snips the thread, and pulls the leather from beneath the presser foot. Leaning against his chair back, he gives me his full attention. “Mia came to me,” he whispers.
Surprise cuffs me, a blow against my cheek, hard enough to jar. “What about?”
“She told me Ananias had … strayed.” The old man’s face darkens. “She was distraught. I counseled her. She told me other things, too, Chief Burkholder. She said Ananias had beat a man nearly to death. She said the devil had crawled into his soul. And that she was afraid.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I went to Ananias. He denied all of it. He said Mia was having a mental relapse. He said it had happened before.”
“Did you believe him?”
The old man turns his head and looks out the window, as if wishing he could be anywhere but in this room talking to me. Or maybe wishing he had the power to go back in time and change what has already been done. “No. Two days later she was gone. Killed herself in that church.”
“Did you speak to anyone else about what you knew? Or about what Mia had said?”
He shakes his head. “She was gone. I didn’t know if any of it was true, so I never spoke of it. I knew God would see us through whatever darkness lay ahead.”
* * *
The Amish eschew power and yet the bishop wields a vast amount. A good bishop is cautious about how that power is exerted—if at all. If Nelson Yoder believed Ananias Stoltzfus was abusing the authority of his position and tearing the church district apart with his strict rules, tyrannical leadership, and cruel punishments, how far would he go to bring the other man’s reign to an end?
It’s a question I’m loath to ask, let alone answer.
Ananias Stoltzfus enjoyed hurting that young man. He relished the tears. The begging. I saw the pleasure of it in his eyes.
The road back to town is narrow and steep, short straightaways interrupted by switchbacks and hairpin curves. I’m so immersed in my thoughts I barely notice the beauty of the terrain or the dapple of shadow and light on my windshield.
That was the day I realized Ananias Stoltzfus was cruel.
I’m driving too fast, but I’m the only one on the road. I negotiate a banked curve with ease, then speed up for a ruler-straight stretch.
She told me Ananias had … strayed … beat a man nearly to death. She said the devil had crawled into his soul. And that she was afraid.
I catch a glimpse of a vehicle nestled in the trees to my right. As I pass, a pickup truck rockets out. I yank the wheel left, mash the brake. Steel clanks against steel as the front end crashes into the passenger door. I’m jerked right. My airbag explodes, punching my face and chest hard enough to daze. The passenger-door window bursts. Glass cascades over me. My rear tires skid, lose purchase. The other vehicle keeps coming, tires screaming, shoving me left.
The guardrail looms to my left. I wrench the wheel right. The guardrail strikes my door. Wood splinters. Steel groans. I glance right, catch a glimpse of a grille; then the rental car lurches violently and plummets.
My car tilts crazily. Saplings scrape the undercarriage. Gravity throws me against the door. My head strikes the window. Then I’m upside down, the safety harness digging into my chest. Glass breaking all around. A kaleidoscope of brush and debris flies outside the windshield. The car comes to a halt. I’m hanging sideways. The hiss of steam in my ears. The creaking of steel.