Page 42 of The Hidden One

“You think someone reached their limit and decided to do something about it?”

“I think a lot of the Amish didn’t care for his heavy-handed ways. Ananias Stoltzfus bullied people in the name of the Ordnung. If you were Amish, you know what that means and it ain’t right.”

I think about the thoughtful and careful process the Amish use for the selection of their Diener—the bishop, deacon, and ministers—which is by lot. They eschew any notion of power as being worldly.

“If Ananias Stoltzfus was a tyrant, how is it that he was elected bishop?” I ask.

His brows knit as if he’s trying to recall. “I don’t think he was overbearing from the start. From what I hear, it got worse after his wife passed away.”

“How so?”

“I think that’s when he started cracking down on people. Especially the backsliders. Like me.” He offers a self-deprecating smile. “Guess you can’t blame him for being a crotchety old bastard. The way his wife died and all.”

“How did she die?”

He looks at me as if he’s surprised I don’t already know. “She walked into the Lutheran church in Belleville and slit her wrists right there by the altar. Pastor found her. She died before they could get her to the hospital.”

“Any idea why she did it?” I ask.

“Everyone was pretty tight-lipped about it. Even the newspaper didn’t go into much detail.”

“How long ago did it happen?”

“A few years before Ananias disappeared.” He uses a kerchief to blot sweat from his temple. “But, damn, cutting your wrists in a Lutheran church when you’re Amish? Who does something like that?”

CHAPTER 14

I have no idea if the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus is related in any way to the death of her husband, but the story follows me as I pull onto the road and head east. The suicide rate among the Amish is slightly lower than the general population. But, of course, it happens. Depression and despair are human conditions and the Amish are not immune. What sets Mia Stoltzfus’s suicide apart is that she chose to do it in a Lutheran church. Why would an Amish woman, an Anabaptist, choose to take her life in a Lutheran church?

The question nags me as I glance at my GPS and head toward the address for Henry Stoltzfus, Ananias’s son. He lives on a postcard-perfect farm nestled between two hills with a small creek running through the dale between. A grain silo overlooks the field to my left. A massive red barn and three smaller structures are connected by a jigsaw of wood fences dressed in fresh white paint. On the right, a windmill nearly as tall as the two-story farmhouse dominates the side yard, green vines snaking toward the bladed topper.

I idle past the barns and stop in the gravel area at the side of the house. It’s a frame structure with a green composite roof, a redbrick chimney, and a porch that stretches across the front elevation. I’m midway to the door when I notice the midsize barn behind the house. It’s a workshop of sorts and the door is open. Seeing light and movement inside, I head that way.

There’s a picnic table in front of the building. A giant stockpot simmers atop a homemade tripod set over an open fire. An Amish boy of about twelve emerges from the interior. He’s wearing blue trousers and a work shirt. Straw, flat-brimmed hat. Single suspender crossed over his chest. He’s carrying a headless chicken by its feet. Butchering day, I realize.

“Hello there,” I say.

The boy nods a greeting, holding the dead chicken far enough away to keep blood off his shoes.

“I’m looking for Henry Stoltzfus,” I say. “Is he around?”

The boy points toward the open door.

I enter the dimly lit interior to the sound of clucking chickens. Two headless creatures hang by their feet from the low-slung rafter overhead. Three roosters await their fate from wood crates stacked on the floor.

“What do you want?”

At the sound of the voice, I turn to see a stern-faced Amish man approach from a darkened corridor. He’s blond-haired and blue-eyed with a coarse-looking beard the color of straw. He’s dressed similarly to the boy. His expression tells me he’s not thrilled to see an Englischer standing in his barn.

I go to him, extend my hand for a shake, and introduce myself. “I’m looking into what happened to your father. The Diener asked me to help.”

He doesn’t accept the handshake. “Help who?”

“Anyone interested in the truth,” I say.

“Why you?” He gives my clothes a pointed look. “You’re hohch.”

It’s a slightly derogatory term for a non-Amish person. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it; I don’t take it personally. Sensing my time is limited, I make my point in Deitsch. “Any information you can share will be very much appreciated.”