Page 87 of The Burning

Beneath me, Bertha lowers her cheek to the floor and begins to cry. “You’re a cruel one, Kate Burkholder. No wonder you left. None of us would have you. Fagunna!” It’s the Deitsch word for “to desire another’s misfortune.”

Keeping an eye on Yoder, I pull the handcuffs from the compartment on my belt. “Mrs. Swanz, I do not want to handcuff you, and I do not want to arrest you. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand any of this!” she cries. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

I look at Yoder. Wide-eyed, his gaze flicks from me to Bertha and back to me. As if at a complete loss, he shrugs.

“Bertha, will you stay calm if I sit you up?” I ask the Amish woman.

“Please,” she sobs. “I wish you would just go away!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Shoving the cuffs back into their compartment, I rise and offer my hand to her.

A few feet away, Yoder stares at us, his hands still raised, his mouth hanging open.

The Amish woman takes my hand and maneuvers into a sitting position, her legs splayed in front of her.

“Are you okay?” I ask

Tears streaming, she shakes her head.

I give Yoder a nod and together we help her to her feet. “Mrs. Swanz, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you stumbled,” I say. “The reason I’m giving you that kind of leeway is because you have four school-age children to care for. If you lie to me, even by omission, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Do you understand?”

Eyes shimmering with tears, she looks away, and concentrates on brushing nonexistent dust from the front of her dress. “I understand.”

I look at Yoder, then point at one of the chairs. “Put your hands down and sit.”

Without speaking, he obeys.

The Amish woman pulls a wadded-up tissue from her pocket and uses it to blot tears from her cheeks.

“I think it’s time the three of us had a heart-to-heart chat about Milan Swanz,” I say to them.

Looking miserable, the Amish woman goes to the counter, pulls a mug from the cabinet. “Have yourself a seat there,” she says in Deitsch. “And I’ll tell you everything I know.”

CHAPTER 23

“Milan was never quite right in the head. Had a hard time telling the difference between right and wrong. Seemed like he always chose wrong over right.”

Bertha Swanz, Lester Yoder, and I are seated at the kitchen table. It’s so quiet I can hear the pop and crackle of the woodstove in the living room. The hiss of the gas lamp overhead. The tick of the stovetop behind me as it cools.

“All he knew was what he wanted and he didn’t care who he hurt to get it.” Bertha’s brows knit as if she’s struggling to piece together a difficult puzzle. “You put all of that together and trouble just seemed to follow him wherever he went.”

Her mouth curves into a melancholy smile. “When he was younger, it didn’t seem so bad. He was funny and charming and all those mistakes seemed harmless. Datt liked him; Milan was a decent cabinetmaker, after all. Handsome, too, and a lot of the girls noticed.” She sighs. “I was a silly thing and didn’t know my head from a hole in the ground. Once we got married, the babies came quick. And so did the problems.”

Yoder picks up his cup, sips, his eyes downcast.

A dozen questions arise, but I hold them at bay and let her talk.

“Everything he did,” she continues, “everyone he dealt with, there were problems. He got into arguments with people for no good reason. Had trouble with everyone. The older he got, the worse it got.” She shrugs. “That’s not to mention the children. I’m not against discipline, mind you, but Milan had a temper. Overdid the whipping. Seemed like everything he did was an overreaction.”

She heaves a sigh, goes on as if she’s just warming up. “It wasn’t long before he started hitting me. Not too bad at first. A slap or two here and there. But I knew it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t right and it got to be a bad situation. Next, he started having problems at work. Got fired. Boy, that made him mad. He couldn’t let things go, and he wanted to get even for every little slight, even when it was his own fault.

“Bishop Troyer put him under the bann half a dozen times over the years. Milan always made it right. Confessed to the congregation, asked for forgiveness, and they let him come back. But how many times does it take?” She shakes her head. “By then, most everyone—the Amish—knew there was something wrong with him. Everyone knew he was a bad egg. No one talked about it. No one did anything, least of all me. And it got worse.”

“How so?” I ask.

She quiets, looks down at the tabletop. “One afternoon Milan came home. Had Clarence Raber with him. They’d been boozing it up. He broke my boy’s arm. Said it was an accident. But I saw it happen; I saw his face.” She raises anguished eyes to mine. “That hurt me something awful. I went to Bishop Troyer the next day. I told him everything. That’s when the bishop got with the Diener and, later, the whole congregation, and Milan was excommunicated for good.”