Page 50 of Shamed

He looks down at the tabletop where his hands, fingers twisted and swollen with arthritis, rest easily. After a moment, he meets my gaze. “Noah asked me if I knew of a couple who could take in a child and raise it as their own.”

I tug out my notebook and write down the bishop’s full name. “Why would an Amish bishop become involved in something like that?”

“According to Bishop Schwartz, the child had no one. No one. She needed a family. Parents. A safe place. A home.”

“You didn’t question him about the circumstances? Or ask where she came from? Didn’t you wonder about the parents?”

“I trusted in the wisdom and goodness of the bishop. I had faith that the Lord would see us through the darkness we were facing. You have to understand, Katie, it was a troubling time and there was uncertainty. Grief, even. And fear. None of the decisions made were entered into lightly or without a great deal of thought.”

“Who else was involved?” I ask.

“The midwife.”

“What’s her name?”

“I do not know.”

“Noah Schwartz brought you the baby?”

The old man nods. “Two days later. Noah and the midwife brought the girl child. We took her to Miriam and Ivan late in the night. We prayed. And it was done.”

“Who are the parents?” I ask. “What are their names?”

“I do not know.”

“Where did the baby come from? What town?”

“Scioto County. That’s all I know.”

I write it down. Scioto County is in the southern part of Ohio. In the back of my mind, I recall Martha Hershberger telling me that Mary Yoder’s sister, Marlene, was from “down south somewhere.”

“Do you know Mary Yoder’s sister, Marlene?” I ask.

The bishop shakes his head. “No.”

“Have you ever heard the name?”

Another shake.

Even as I ask the questions, I struggle to make sense of everything I’ve been told. “Why did Bishop Schwartz take the baby? Was the mother sick? Injured? Dying? Why did he become involved at all?”

“I did not ask,” he tells me. “All I can tell you is that Noah Schwartz did this thing in the name of the Lord and the church.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding a hard tattoo against my ribs. I don’t want to believe the story I’ve been told. That two Amish bishops participated in what is at best an illegal adoption. At worst, a kidnapping. But in my heart of hearts, I know it’s the truth, however questionable. While Bishop Troyer is not above manipulation in the name of the Ordnung, he is not a liar.

“Where do I find Bishop Schwartz?” I ask.

“I heard Noah passed a couple of weeks ago.”

Disappointment tings in my chest. “What about the midwife?”

“I do not know.”

“Where are they from?”

“Most of the Amish live in Crooked Creek, I think. A few hours south. Down by the river. I’d met Noah once or twice over the years. Scioto County is not part of our church district, but they are in full fellowship with us here in Holmes County. They are of the same affiliation.”

“Who else knows about this?” I ask.