Page 77 of The Burning

“Very much so.” I nod. “They look old.”

“Some of those Bibles date back hundreds of years. People died to keep them hidden and safe.”

The persecution of the Anabaptists is a somber topic for the Amish, and not for the first time, I’m reminded of the hundreds who were hunted down, tortured, and killed for their beliefs during the Reformation in Europe.

We reach a small, cozily cramped office more befitting a college professor. An antique-looking desk holds an old-fashioned banker’s lamp. Dozens of manila folders are stacked not so neatly on the corner. A Y2K-era computer rests on the adjacent credenza. An intricate Amish quilt hangs on the wall. Outside the window, the sun has set and I see a light snow falling. The whistle of wind through the eaves.

“Make yourself at home.” Dan motions me into one of two visitor chairs adjacent to a desk piled with indistinguishable documents, forms, and books. “I have to tell you, Chief Burkholder, we receive thousands of visitors every year and I don’t believe I’ve ever fielded a question about the Schwertler Anabaptists,” he says.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“It’s an obscure group that existed hundreds of years ago; not many people—the Amish included—are even aware of its existence. Do you mind if I ask why you’re inquiring about them?”

“All I can tell you is that it may or may not be related to a case I’m working on.”

“The mystery deepens.” He studies me intently. “You must be referring to the Milan Swanz case.”

I smile. “Are you assuming it’s about the Swanz case or do you know something I don’t?”

“Well, it was such an unusual crime. Painters Mill is a small town. And Milan Swanz was Amish.” He shrugs. “I must admit I was intrigued.”

“So you’re aware of how he was killed.”

“Of course. Dreadful to say the least, but I was captivated.” Folding his hands in front of him, he leans back in the chair. “There’s a certain symbolism, if you will, involved with burning a man at the stake.”

I get the impression this charming man could talk about Anabaptist history all day, so I guide him back to the topic at hand. “What can you tell me about the Schwertler Anabaptists?”

“My knowledge is limited, I’m afraid. That said, I have a lot of resources here at the center.” He shrugs. “I do know that the Schwertlers came to be during the Reformation, and they were a very unusual group for the time.” His brows knit. “Let’s see what we can find.” He swivels to the bookcase behind him, plucks a massive tome from the shelf, and blows off the dust. “Sorry. My housekeeping skills are almost as bad as my weakness for straying off topic.” Setting the book in front of him, he pulls wire-rimmed spectacles from his breast pocket, opens the book, and flips several pages. “Ah, here we go.

“Balthasar Hubmaier played a role in the Anabaptist movement during the Reformation.” He turns the page. “He was born in Bavaria, Germany, around 1480. Graduated from the University of Ingolstadt with a doctorate. He was a priest for a time.” He flips another page. “In 1524, Hubmaier married his wife, Elizabeth. Shortly thereafter, they moved to Zurich and he became acquainted with Heinrich Glarean. It was there that Hubmaier had a change of heart, if you will, and rebuffed the Catholic doctrine of infant baptism. Such a belief was extremely radical at the time—and risky business, of course. During that period, Hubmaier became a respected Anabaptist theologian. But it was a violent era and men were hardened. Later, he helped orchestrate a violent pogrom against Regensburg’s Jews.”

“That doesn’t sound very pacifistic,” I say dryly.

He looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Just so you know, ‘schwertler’ translates loosely to ‘of the sword.’ In fact, during that time, Hubmaier wrote a manuscript called On the Sword, challenging the nonresistant views of the Anabaptists. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Reformation was a dangerous time for religious dissent. Because of his beliefs, he fell out of favor with Ferdinand, who was the Holy Roman Emperor. Ferdinand was a powerful man and a ferocious persecutor of heretics. Twice Hubmaier was imprisoned and tortured on the rack. He did not recant and in 1528, in Vienna, Austria, he was executed—burned at the stake.”

He raises his gaze to mine and for the span of a few seconds, the words echo between us.

Burned at the stake.

“Three days later,” the curator tells me, “his wife, Elizabeth, had a rock tied to her neck and was thrown from a bridge into the Danube River and drowned.”

Having grown up Amish, I’m no stranger to the savagery inflicted upon the early European Anabaptists for their religious beliefs; I read much of Martyrs Mirror as a kid and the accounts of torture and murder made an indelible impression on my young mind. Even now, as an adult—a cop—hearing the brutal details of those stories sends a chill up my spine.

“What exactly does ‘of the sword’ mean?” I ask.

“My interpretation?” Dan considers the question, thoughtful, weighing his words carefully. “Hubmaier believed that violence could be used for good. He defended the government’s use of force to protect innocent Christians. He did not, however, believe in the use of force by an individual to defend one’s self, family, other defenseless Christians, or their property. He also very much believed in a benevolent government.”

“Evidently, the government wasn’t as benevolent as he believed,” I say.

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

“And ruthless.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. It’s as if we’re caught up in those troubling times nearly five hundred years ago. I think about Milan Swanz and I struggle to find some cogent link between the murder and the Schwertler Anabaptists, but there’s nothing there.

“I’m a curious man, Chief Burkholder.” The director smiles despite the grim subject matter. “How interesting that an Amish man is found dead, having been burned at the stake, and a few days later, you’re in my office asking about the Schwertler Anabaptists. I’m incredibly intrigued.”

It’s bad form for an investigator to divulge too much about an ongoing case to a civilian outside of law enforcement. People talk, and the last thing any cop wants is some sensational headline based on an exchange that never should have taken place. This conversation—namely the prospect of relevant information—is worth the risk as long as I don’t reveal anything sensitive.