JENNY WATCHED FROM HER DESK as the man picked up the key to the microfiche room and headed there. When he went inside, she slipped quietly up the hallway and followed him in. He was waiting for her and stuck out his hand.
“Hi, Jenny. I’m Bob Schumann.”
Jenny took his hand and shook it. He was a nice-looking older man with white hair and a pleasant smile. He had on an Ohio State jacket and a Cincinnati Reds baseball hat pushed back on his head. The smile wrinkles around his eyes belied the gruffness she had sensed on the phone. A briefcase sat on the desk behind him.
Jenny went to the files, pulled out the filmstrips, and handed them to Schumann. He sat down at the reader and quietly perused the two articles. Then he turned to Jenny.
“I remember when I wrote this story. It was a real mystery in nineteen fifty-one, and the fact that there was heroin in the car was a huge deal back then. Nowadays, with all the stuff going on in San Francisco and New York, the drug angle isn’t so exciting. It’s always bothered me that all the leads in this story were dead ends.”
“What can you tell me about the man?” Jenny asked.
“Not much more than what’s here,” Bob said. “They did an autopsy, and the cause of death was drowning. The only possible identifier they found on him was a large tattoo.”
“A tattoo? That wasn’t in the story,” Jenny said.
“I made a sketch of it at the coroner’s office when they let me view the body, but the police chief made me leave it out of the article. Seems that it was a popular tattoo with the servicemen during the war, and the sheriff didn’t want anything bad reflected on our local vets, what with the heroin and the empty liquor bottles they found. It didn’t seem important at the time, so I pulled it.”
“Describe the tattoo to me,” Jenny said.
“Very large, located on his left shoulder,” Bob said. “Well here, let me show you.”
Schumann opened the briefcase and rummaged among some papers. He pulled out a sheet with a rough drawing in the middle. The picture was of a large, ornate tattoo of the patriotic type common among servicemen. The Statue of Liberty was in the center, surrounded by four flags, two on each side. Above the tattoo it said, “God Bless America,” and right under the statue were some Roman numerals.
“Notice the number under the statue. When I compared it to other tattoos like it, they didn’t have a number. I’ve always remembered it, maybe because it was like a palindrome.”
He wrote the number in larger letters beneath the drawing: IVIII IIIVI.
“Is there any significance to the number?” Jenny asked.
“I didn’t find any at the time.”
“Didn’t you say that the tattoo was popular with men in the military?” Jenny asked.
Schumann nodded.
“Well, what if it’s some kind of identifying number like a dog tag or a social security number?”
Schumann’s eye’s brightened, and he pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket and perched them on his nose to take a closer look. After a minute he looked at Jenny over the glasses.
“You know, Jenny, you may have something there,” Schumann said. “The Navy issued commission numbers to officers. By the end of the war there were at least three hundred sixty thousand of them. Most of the ones over a hundred twenty-five thousand were issued at the beginning of the war.”
Jenny looked at the Roman numerals. “What if these numerals actually represent a large number, and it was the only way to write it in this form. Let’s see. One, five, three, a break, and then three, five, and one. What if the number is actually this?” She wrote down the number.
Schumann stared at Jenny’s figures. “Jenny, you could be right. It would fit the pattern of naval commission numbers. Our boy could have been a Naval officer!”
“Where could we find a list of those numbers and who they were issued to?” Jenny asked.
“War Department or the VFW. You’d have to know somebody who’s a vet.”
“My papa won the Congressional Medal of Honor. Do you think that might give him access to some of these records?”
Bob Schumann smiled. “Say, young lady, if you ever decide to leave the Amish faith, I could get you a job at the newspaper. You’ve got the makings of a good investigative reporter.”
“Well, Mr. Schumann, I probably wouldn’t have to leave the faith to write for you. I’m a history intern here at the library and have already written several articles about the local Amish and their contribution to Wayne County and the state of Ohio. I’m putting together a book that I’m hoping to publish someday. You might find some of the information of interest to your readers. But first I have to solve the mystery of my birth mother.”
“Jenny, you’ve got a deal. You’re a self-possessed young woman, and I would very much like to see some of your writing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Schumann. Now, is there anything else we can find out from the information you came up with?” Jenny asked.
Schumann turned back to the reader and scanned the article again. “There might be a lead in the license plate number,” he said. “The Department of Motor Vehicles would have a record of the registered owner at the time. Perhaps they might have some information about the car or have an idea who stole it. That’s about all there is. But we have two leads here to follow. The man who helped rescue your mama in nineteen fifty is now our sheriff. He could probably get you access to the DMV records.”
“Our family is still very close with Sheriff Halverson. In fact, I call him Uncle Bobby.”
“Well, there you go! This is looking more promising. I’m sure a young lady with your determination can find the answers to these questions.”
Jenny smiled at Schumann. “Thank you so much for your help. You’ve given me some hope.”
“Glad to help,” Schumann said. “Please keep me updated on what you find out. I would certainly like to print the end of this story. I’ll give you a byline.” The older man stood up and extended his hand again. “Good luck to you, Jenny, and may the Lord bless you in your endeavors.”
“Are you a Christian, Mr. Schumann?” Jenny asked.
“Who isn’t?” the old man replied with a smile. Then he strode through the door and was gone.
Jenny waited on the curb in front of the library. She had come away from her conversation with Bob Schumann with two important clues. Now she had to figure out how to get her papa to help her track the possible naval commission number. Getting Uncle Bobby’s help with the license plate would be easy.
She thought about the woman who had come to her in her dreams. An unshakable certainty settled on her, and she knew that the woman must be her birth mother. Mama, I’ll find out what happened and put this mystery to rest.
Just then Henry pulled up at the curb. Her papa was sitting in the front seat, so she climbed in the back.
“And how was your day, dochter?” Reuben asked.
“Just fine, Papa. I was doing some historical research today and found some very interesting facts.”
“Das is gut,” Reuben said as he turned to look at her. “Perhaps someday you can chronicle some of the information you’ve gleaned. I’m sure our people would be interested in reading about their history, and perhaps it could set to rest some of the misconceptions about the Amish.”
Jenny looked back at her papa. He was usually very skeptical about her research, and she wondered what had made him more open today. She hesitated and then spoke again.
“Yes, Papa, I’m sure it would be of value. I was thinking perhaps I might write some small articles about our customs and background and submit them to the local paper.”
Jenny watched her father’s face for any telltale negative responses. His jaw did tighten for just a moment, but then he said, “That might be something we could talk about. I would like to read some of your work if you don’t mind.”
“Why, Papa! I would love to show you some of my writing. Mama has seen it, but you have never seemed to be interested.”
“I know, Jenny, and perhaps I’ve been remiss in not encouraging you more. I know that you were an excellent student in Amish schule, but I must admit I was a bit skeptical when you desired to continue your education. It’s just my way, and I’m sorry for not showing more appreciation for your talents.”
Jenny didn’t know what to say. Her papa had seemed to resist her internship at the library, but Mama had convinced him that it was a safe way to work out her natural curiosity, so he had acceded to Jerusha’s request and let Jenny go forward. Now he was actually encouraging her. What was going on here? It wasn’t like him. She felt a small hope growing that he might let her follow up the leads she had uncovered.
Henry dropped them at their lane, and as he drove off, Reuben and Jenny walked together up to the house. The afternoon sun did little to take the chill out of the air, and the breeze carried the smell of fallen leaves and moist dirt. The fall was fully on them, and the harvest nearly done.
Off in the distance Jenny could see the rest of the Springer farm laid out like a beautiful quilt. There were the hay fields with the stacks of bales. Behind the house was the orchard with the luscious Gala, McIntosh, and Golden Delicious apple trees. The faint scent of grounded apples flavored the air, a smell that always comforted Jenny. Out past the barn the cornfield started. The rows stood tall and green with the first touch of light brown and gold touching the leaves. The silken tassels on the ears had turned dark—proof that the golden kernels were ripe and sweet beneath the husks. Beside the house was her mother’s kitchen garden with ripe red tomatoes, leeks, onions, herbs, beans, squash, and cucumbers climbing their stakes and racks in wild abandon.
Jenny took her father’s hand in hers as they walked, and she let her heart fill with the beauty all around her. She looked up at her papa, so tall and strong beside her, and the love that welled up in her heart gave voice to her feelings.
“It’s so beautiful here, Papa. Thank you for having me as your daughter and raising me in this place.”
Reuben was silent, but she felt his hand squeeze hers in quiet assurance. Jenny hoped she would never do anything to hurt Papa. She wanted to be a good daughter above everything else.
They went up onto the porch and into the house. Jenny heard her mama’s voice, beautiful and clear, floating from the kitchen, borne aloft on the aroma of roast beef, boiled potatoes, string beans, and carrots. She was singing Das Lobleid, the hymn of praise, and the words comforted Jenny’s troubled heart.
Lässt loben Ihn mit allen unseren Herzen! Weil Er allein würdig ist!
While Reuben went to the washroom to clean up, Jenny went into the kitchen. Her mama was setting the table for the early evening supper.
“Jenny, just in time. Can you put the applesauce in a bowl and get out the beets and pickles? I just put the biscuits in, and we’ll be ready to eat in about ten minutes.”
Jenny helped Jerusha put the food on the table. Along with the main course there was butter and jam, peaches in syrup, and Shoofly pie. Jenny liked her pie with maple syrup, but Reuben and Jerusha preferred fruit and thick cream on top.
Reuben returned, and the three of them sat down to eat. Jerusha was a wonderful cook, and the food was delicious.
Reuben spoke up. “I’ve never been able to decide which of your graces I appreciate the most, wife. When I kiss you, I’m sure it’s your beauty. When I watch you quilt, I know it’s your talent. But when I sit down to the table, I realize without a doubt it’s your cooking.”
Jerusha didn’t miss a beat with her reply. “It’s well understood that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so that doesn’t surprise me at all, husband.”
Jenny enjoyed the loving banter between her parents and decided this might be a good time to broach the subject of her conversation with Bob Schumann.
“Papa, today I spoke with Mr. Schumann, a man who used to write articles for the Daily Record. I talked to him about perhaps publishing some of my articles on the Amish way of life and history. He was very interested and asked to see my writing. I would like your permission to show my articles to him.”
“Yes, I would be willing to permit,” Reuben said. “But first I would like to read them for myself.”
“Certainly, Papa. I’d be happy to have you read them and tell me what you think.”
“That’s wonderful, dear,” Jerusha said. “I’m so glad you’re finding a way to use the gift God has given you.”
“Oh, Mama, we did talk about this before, didn’t we?”
Her mother nodded. “Yes, we did indeed.”
Jenny decided to go all the way with her request. “Papa, there was something else I talked about with Mr. Schumann.”
Reuben glanced up at her, and then her words came out in a rush. “Mr. Schumann was the one who wrote the article about finding me in the car in the storm and about the dead man they found in the pond. He shared some information with me that might help in solving the mystery of who my birth mother was, but I need your help. You see—”
Reuben put his utensils down and looked straight at her. His words came at her like knives.“Jenny, I told you that the matter of finding your birth mother is closed. I explained my reasons. If you pursue this, it could lead to serious consequences. I will say this one last time. The issue of your birth mother is not to be spoken of in this house again. If you don’t promise me that you’ll obey me, I’ll have to tell Mrs. Blake that you can no longer work at the library.”
“Reuben!” Jerusha exclaimed.
Reuben looked at Jerusha sharply, and she looked down at the table.
Jenny felt anger rising up in her, but she held her peace. Let it go, Jenny. This isn’t the place to fight the battle.
“Jenny, I want your promise now.” Reuben’s voice was quiet, but Jenny could hear the finality in it. She clenched her jaw so that she wouldn’t say something sarcastic. She took a deep breath and then spoke.
“Yes, Papa. I promise.” There, I said it. I hope I won’t become a liar.
Reuben relaxed. “Gut. I will accept your promise. I trust you won’t break your word to me. That’s enough now. Let us go on with our dinner.”
Then silence lay heavy on the Springer home.