There is a saying about assumptions and for the most part it holds true. When I arrived in the Kishacoquillas Valley to look into the death of Ananias Stoltzfus, I’d been operating on the notion that he was a kindly and much-loved bishop, a man revered by all. I believed that his untimely death had left a wound on the community and an ocean of broken hearts in its wake.
From the outside looking in, those things may have been true, at least in a topical sense. As bishop, Stoltzfus touched many lives in posi- tive ways—baptisms, communion, and marriages. But a number of people who came in contact with him—for some transgression or perceived wrongdoing—were met with the kind of heavy hand that could alter the course of a life—or ruin it.
Ananias Stoltzfus enjoyed hurting that young man.
He relished the tears.
I saw the pleasure of it in his eyes.
Bishop Yoder knew what kind of man Ananias Stoltzfus was. He disagreed with many of his decisions. There was friction between the two men. Was it enough to drive Yoder to commit an act of violence? Did he take it upon himself to permanently remove the man who was hurting his brethren and sucking the lifeblood from the community?
Yoder isn’t the only one who might have benefited from his death. Roman Miller—who has access to a dark pickup truck—was forced to leave the Amish and join a local Mennonite church. Levi Schmucker was accused of sexually abusing his daughter. He suffered serious physical injuries and was forced to abandon his family and leave town.
And what about Jonas? a little voice whispers.
His father was excommunicated and silenced. After Ezra’s death Jonas blamed Ananias. Jonas wrote a threatening letter and they argued publicly. The rise of doubt that follows is a physical pain.
All of these men had motive, means, and opportunity. Is one of them a killer? Is there something else I’m simply not seeing? And how does any of it play into my suspicion that Ananias and Mia were lying about where they came from?
After visiting Bishop Yoder, I went to see Nathan Kempf. Though the deacon wasn’t able to tell me anything I didn’t already know, he did have a copy of Raber’s New American Almanac. I took it back to the motel and spent a couple of hours substantiating what I already knew. Ananias Stoltzfus was never a bishop in Harmony, Minnesota. Later, I stopped by Mary Elizabeth’s place, but there was no one there. By and large, the afternoon was a bust.
It’s dusk by the time I pull into the Bowman driveway. Lightning flickers on the western horizon as I park and head inside. The wind has picked up and the air smells of rain as I take the sidewalk to the porch and knock. The door opens and Junior grins up at me, a chocolate Fudgsicle sticking out of his mouth.
“Hi, Katie!” he says excitedly. “You’re just in time. D-Datt says God is going to water the grass and m-make the tomatoes grow. Do you want a Fudgsicle? There are two left and I’m only allowed to have one.”
Before I can respond, he takes my hand and pulls me into a living room aglow with lamplight. Dorothy sits in a rocking chair, next to the window, a needle and thread in hand, clothing ostensibly in need of mending piled at her feet.
“Hi, Katie.” She looks at the boy, her mouth twitching. “God is going to make all those weeds grow, too.”
Jonas stands in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb. “And He made your hands just the right size to pull them,” he says to his son.
Realizing he is the center of attention—and facing an afternoon of weed-pulling tomorrow—Junior rolls his eyes and slinks up the stairs.
Effie is curled on the sofa, tongue sticking out in concentration, an embroidery ring and swatch of fabric in her hands. I can see from where I’m standing it’s a chicken-scratch pattern, the only kind of needlepoint I enjoyed as a kid.
“Looks like someone’s going to get a pretty baby quilt,” I say to her.
“Mrs. Kurtz is going to have her baby in two weeks.” Effie raises the ring to assess her work and wrinkles her nose. “My stitches are crooked.”
“I don’t think the baby is going to notice,” Jonas mutters.
In the beat of silence that follows, the first fat drops of rain ping against the window. I look at Jonas, wishing I didn’t have to darken the scene with questions about murder.
“I need to talk to you,” I tell him.
I can tell by his expression he knows the news isn’t good.
Before he can respond, Dorothy rises and scoops up the clothes at her feet. “Effie, you can finish tomorrow. Let’s go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ve devotional to read and you could use a bath.”
Effie deflates, her expression telling me she’d rather stay down here and eavesdrop, but she’s too well-mannered to argue. “Junior smells worse than I do,” she grouses. “Why doesn’t he ever have to take a bath?”
Jonas wrinkles his nose. “In Junior’s case, I think it’s those beans he had for dinner.”
Effie giggles.
“There’s coffee on the stove, Katie.” Dorothy gestures toward the kitchen. “You make yourself at home while you’re here.”
The aromas of cooked onions and meat hover in the kitchen when I enter. I take in the warmth of this house, the closeness of this family, and I try to ignore the doubt I felt earlier, the sense of things lost, of nostalgia pressing down on me.
Jonas goes to the lamp and turns up the gas. “You’re limping,” he says.
I tell him about the accident. “It was a pickup truck. Dark. Blue or black.”
At the stove, he tips a percolator and pours coffee into two cups, cuts me a sharp look over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Just a little bruised.” I hold his gaze. “Do you know anyone who drives that kind of vehicle?”
He sets a cup in front of me and takes the chair across from me. “Roman Miller drives a truck.”
The rumble of thunder that follows rattles the plates hanging on the wall. I listen to the storm, sip coffee that’s a little too weak.
“The bishop in Minnesota has never heard of Ananias or Mia Stoltzfus,” I tell him.
He sets down his cup, his brows furrowing. “How can that be? Ananias was bishop. For years. Is it possible the man you spoke with is mistaken?”
“Ananias also had a lover.” I recap my conversation with Bob the bartender at the Triangle Bar and Grill. “In Lewistown. Her name was Rosemary. An English woman who owned a bar.” I pull out my cell and show him the photo of her. “Have you ever seen her before?”
“No.”
I set my phone on the table, thinking about my conversation with Nelson Yoder. “How well do you know Bishop Yoder?”
“I’ve known him for many years.” He narrows his gaze on mine. “He is a good bishop. A good man, I think.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask.
“What are you asking me exactly?” he snaps. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
“Evidently, Yoder didn’t care for Ananias either, but then you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Jonas looks away, says nothing.
“Yoder told me Ananias was cruel. He claims to have witnessed that cruelty firsthand. He said Ananias’s tactics were tearing apart the community.”
He stares down at the tabletop in front of him, his mouth tight.
“Jonas, do you think it’s possible Bishop Yoder—”
“No.” He slaps his hand down on the tabletop. “No.”
I pick up my phone, scroll through the photos until I find the shot I took of the Lapplandschild shield. I show it to him. “Do you know what this is?”
Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulls out a pair of reading glasses, slides them onto his nose, and studies the photo. “No.”
The Amish attend school through the eighth grade. Most of their education focuses on reading, math, spelling, grammar, penmanship, and some history. “It’s a wartime medal,” I tell him.
He looks at me, incredulous. “Are you telling me Ananias fought in a war?”
“I think he was in the military. In some capacity.”
“You know as well as I do an Amish man would not fight. He would not kill.”
It’s a true statement. The Amish are pacifistic; they eschew any kind of violence. “I think he was a soldier.” I tap my nail against the photo on the screen. “I think this badge belonged to Ananias. I don’t know how or why, but he made some kind of contribution to the war. And he was rewarded for it.”
“Why are you telling me all of these things?”
“I’m getting to that,” I say. “How well do you know your history?”
He looks away. “Just what I learned in school.…”
Which means if he hasn’t read up on world history as an adult, he probably isn’t well versed. “I think Ananias and Mia were from Germany.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
I continue, “They were living in Germany during World War II. As you know, some German soldiers were guilty of terrible things. War crimes. When the war was over, some of those bad people fled the country to escape justice. I think Mia and Ananias were among them. I think they fled to the U.S. At some point, Ananias stumbled upon the Amish and realized it would be the perfect place to hide. They were already fluent in German. So they studied the culture, changed their names, invented a past. And they assumed Amish identities.”
He stares at me, blinking, his expression shocked. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I know it sounds far-fetched, but it fits. It would explain a lot.” I look down at the pic on my cell. “I think Ananias kept that badge because it meant something to him. But he knew he shouldn’t. I think he gave it to Rosemary, his lover. Not realizing what it was, she displayed it in her bar.
“Ananias became bishop here in Mifflin County in 1977. In 1978, Levi Schmucker was accused of sexually abusing his daughter. Ananias didn’t want the authorities sniffing around, so he went to Levi, beat the hell out of him, and ordered him to leave town. Problem solved.” I stumble over the words, not sure of their plausibility, hating it because I have no proof of any of it.
Still, I press on. “Mia couldn’t live with the lie. She couldn’t live with what her husband had done back in Germany. That’s why she took her life. She did it in a Lutheran church, she asked for absolution because she was a Lutheran.”
A rumble of thunder punctuates the statement. The air is so heavy, it’s as if the storm has come in through the window and pulses in the room like a hot, sweaty fist.
“Ananias was an evil man,” Jonas says.
I nod. “He did a good job researching his new identity, of lying and deceiving and fitting in, but he couldn’t hide what he was. He couldn’t rid himself of the darkness in his heart. Evidently, the people around him had noticed. I think someone discovered the truth about their bishop and took it upon themselves to end the charade.”
We startle when my phone jangles.
I glance at the display. A local number I’ve seen before but don’t recognize. I answer with my name.
“Chief Burkholder!”
It takes me a moment to place the voice. “Mary Elizabeth?”
“Our barn! Someone set it on fire!”
“You called the fire department?” I ask.
“Yes!” she cries. “They’re coming, but we need help.”
I get to my feet. “Is everyone accounted for?”
“Adrian’s getting the horse and cattle out.” She chokes back a sob. “All of my datt’s things! His trunk! It’s all there! Everything that proves you’re wrong about him! It’s going to burn if we don’t save it!”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay calm. Don’t go into the barn.”
The line goes dead.
“Shit.” I look at Jonas. “I have to go.”
Already on his feet, Jonas strides to the mudroom, grabs two slickers off a hook. “Let’s go.”
“You stay—”
He shoves a slicker at me, then puts his fingers to his mouth and emits an earsplitting whistle. “Junior!”
The boy thunders down the stairs, his eyes darting from me to his father. “Datt?”
“There’s a fire. At the Hershberger place. I’m going to help. Tell your mamm.”
I’m already across the room and yanking open the door. I hear Jonas behind me and then we’re down the steps, sprinting toward the Explorer.