Page 16 of The Hidden One

Frowning, he shakes his head, as if the three elders are misguided teenagers. “They’re good men and they meant well, but I asked them not to involve you.”

“They did the right thing, Jonas. I might be able to help.”

His mouth curves. “You never would take no for an answer.”

“Especially when I’m right.”

“Which is all the time, no?”

We share a smile.

Jonas sobers first. “The thing is, Katie. I know God has a plan. Sometimes we don’t know what that plan is. But it is divine and this is part of it. I’m in His hands, as are all of us. The one thing that I know for certain is that everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

It is the quintessential Amish mindset—one of many reasons I didn’t fit in and left the fold. The impulse to point out that he’s been charged with murder and faces spending the rest of his life in prison is powerful, but I don’t succumb.

“I read a newspaper story about your being a police,” he tells me. “It said you’re good at what you do.”

“I’m good at digging.”

“You always were one for asking questions.” The hint of a smile touches his mouth. “Too many, according to some, eh?”

I smile back, but a hundred of those questions swirl in the forefront of my brain. The need for hard information is tempered by the knowledge that all visitor conversations, attorney-client exchanges aside, are recorded and may be used any way a prosecutor sees fit.

“Jonas.” Without consciously thinking about it, I switch to Deitsch. “Everything we say is being recorded.”

He takes the information in stride, as if it’s the last thing on his mind and he doesn’t care one way or another. “You think I’m going to admit to something that will put the nail in my coffin, Katie?”

“Just so you’re aware.” I don’t smile this time. “I need to know what happened.”

He leans back in the chair and shakes his head. “I didn’t kill Ananias Stoltzfus, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“They arrested you,” I say.

He heaves a sigh, as if the thought of wading into the explanation of how he ended up here exhausts him. “It’s a long story that goes back a few years.”

I motion to our surroundings. “I think we have time.”

He ducks his head, sheepish. The exhale that follows is a disconsolate sound that goes through me as wrenchingly as a sob.

“I was nineteen when we left Painters Mill and moved here to Big Valley,” he tells me.

I stare at him, wait, surprised because even after all these years I have to steel myself against the punch of remembrance. The pain of the fifteen-year-old girl I’d been and the dark days that followed his departure was excruciating and real. I’d never felt so lost. So betrayed. I was broken in so many ways I didn’t think I’d ever be able to put all the pieces of me back together.

“Ananias Stoltzfus was our bishop,” he tells me. “A year or so after we arrived, Datt was struck by the lot.”

Being “struck by the lot” is an Amish term for the process of electing a new member of the Diener—a bishop, deacon, or minister—by the congregation.

“Ezra was a minister?” I ask.

“A good one,” he tells me.

I remember Jonas’s father well. Ezra Bowman was a respected member of the Amish community in Painters Mill. He had a booming voice, a big laugh, and a demeanor that made no bones about what he believed or where he stood. He was charismatic and unfailingly adherent to his Anabaptist beliefs. I was too young at the time to fully comprehend the complexities of the adult relationships around me. But even as a kid, I sensed some of his views weren’t popular among some of the Amish. My own datt used to call him druvvel-machah. Troublemaker.

“Everyone in the church district agreed to the ordination,” he explains, “though we’d only lived in Belleville for a year. Datt was born in Belleville, you know. Grew up here.” Jonas pauses as if to get his words in order. “My father served well for months. He was a good preacher. In full fellowship. Preached in other church districts on the off Sundays.”

Jonas grimaces. “He’d been minister for about year when the mess with the tractor happened. It was diesel powered, you know. Datt had been pushing for more relaxed rules. But Ananias wasn’t happy with him, even though he allowed those who own dairy farms to use diesel machinery to milk. After a lot of discussion and arguments, Ananias put Datt under the bann. When Datt still refused to get rid of the tractor, the bishop silenced him.”

To be placed under the bann is emotionally traumatic for any Amish person. None of your fellow Amish will do business with you. Friends, and even family, will not share a meal with you. Some Amish won’t speak to you. Contrary to popular belief, it is not done to punish, but to bring the fallen back into the parish. For a minister to be “silenced” is worse. The minister’s voice is taken away; he is no longer allowed to preach. It’s a harsh punishment for a man who has been charged with preaching to his congregation.