Page 67 of The Burning

The Diener, or “servants,” are the elected officials who are the leaders of the church district. In Painters Mill, that includes the bishop, the deacon, and the minister. I think of Monroe Hershberger, the deacon whose cornfield was destroyed, and make a mental note to talk to him again.

“Can you think of anyone else who might’ve been wronged by Milan?” This from Tomasetti. “Someone he’d hurt? Or crossed in some way?”

“The Amish are not violent,” the bishop says adamantly, then turns his iron gaze on me. “You know that.”

“Why did you and the Diener and the congregation finally decide to excommunicate Milan?” I ask.

A moment’s hesitation and then the bishop shakes his head. “There were many reasons. Too many. Milan was a fool and his own worst enemy.”

It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t answer the question.

As if unable to maintain her silence any longer, Freda slings the kitchen towel over her shoulder and comes back to the table, sets her hands on her hips. “I was close with his mamm for a time. We thought Milan’s misbehaving would get better once he got baptized. Got married. Had children. Responsibility, you know.” She shakes her head. “But it didn’t get better. And we began to hear things.”

The bishop looks up at her and frowns. “A man’s marriage is not the business of others.”

“A child being hurt is,” Freda snaps.

“What kinds of things did you hear?” I ask.

She tightens her mouth. “We saw little Aaron come to worship with his arm in a cast. I noticed the way Bertha wouldn’t look at me. Saw a black eye on her, too, once or twice. Said she fell down the steps.” She clucks her lips in disgust. “As if I was born yesterday. Wouldn’t talk about it. But I knew. All of us knew.”

“They don’t need to hear all of that,” the bishop grumbles in Deitsch.

“Sei ruich.” Be quiet. The Amish woman utters the words gently, then puts her hand on his shoulder and pats it. “A few days later, Bertha came to me. She was at wits’ end. Needed to talk. To an elder, you know. A woman. And I got an earful.”

“Freda.” There’s a warning in the bishop’s voice.

His wife pays him no heed. “He’d been hitting her. The little ones too—and not just spanking when they needed it.”

The bishop picks up his spoon and taps it hard against the tabletop. “Enough.”

I look from the bishop to Freda. “Did anyone else know Bertha and her children were being abused?” I ask. “A father? Brother? Uncle? Someone who might’ve wanted to protect them? Someone who might’ve confronted Milan about it?”

“We’ve said our due,” the bishop growls. “You’ll have to ask Bertha about the rest of it.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Troyer.” Tomasetti’s voice seems loud and deep in the silence of the old farmhouse. “Do either of you have any idea who might’ve done that to Swanz?”

The bishop stares at him for a long time. Wily, intelligent eyes belie the failing body, and not for the first time I’m reminded that there’s nothing even remotely frail about David Troyer.

“No,” he says simply.

I look at Freda, but she turns back to the counter without meeting my gaze.

I rise. “Thank you for the coffee.” Without waiting for a response, I start for the door.

I hear Tomasetti behind me as I stride through the living room. The hiss of the potbellied stove in the corner. The tinkle of ice crystals against the north window.

Frustrated that we didn’t glean any new information, I yank open the door, step onto the porch, take in a breath of cold air.

“That was a waste of time,” I mutter.

“Old man’s a hard case.” Tomasetti closes the door behind us, looks out into the darkness. “Why the hell did I get the impression that they know more than they’re letting on?”

“Welcome to Amish country.”

We’re midway down the steps when I hear the front door creak. I turn to see Freda close it behind her and come down the steps.

“I knew he wouldn’t talk to you,” she says.