Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(87)

Rosanna and Vernon claim they are the biological parents of Elsie Helmuth. They claim Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz convinced them their infant child was stillborn—and then transported that child to Miriam and Ivan Helmuth. At some point, DNA testing will be done to determine parentage. I told the Helmuths it might be wise for them to retain an attorney, but I don’t believe they’ll do it. The Amish are a nonlitigious group.

There’s one unanswered question that continues to haunt. The one that keeps me awake nights. According to Rosanna, she lost two newborns. The death certificates listed SIDS as the cause of death, but no autopsies had been performed. I can’t help but wonder: Did Rosanna Detweiler harm her children? Or was Sadie Stutzman wrong? They are profound and disturbing questions that may never be answered.

It’s late afternoon when I take the Explorer down the lane of the Troyer farm and park next to the bishop’s buggy. Around me the day is cold and gray. The smell of woodsmoke drifts on the air as I take the sidewalk to the door.

Freda Troyer answers. Emotion flickers in the depths of her eyes at the sight of me. She says my name softly. “You’re here to see David?”

I nod. “How is he?”

“He’s a grouchy old goat. I’ll be glad when he’s up and about so I can put him to work outside.” She pushes open the door. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

I enter an overheated kitchen that smells of lavender and lye. Soapmaking items—measuring containers and forms lined with plastic sheeting—are spread out on the table.

“He’s in the next room, resting.” Freda goes to the counter and picks up a dishcloth. I wouldn’t have discerned that her surliness was an act if I didn’t notice her hands shaking when she dried them.

I’m midway to the door when she whispers my name. I turn to her, shocked to see her frozen in place, tears on her cheeks. Looking annoyed, she swipes at them with the dishcloth, comes to me, takes my hand.

It’s the first time in all the years I’ve known her that Freda Troyer has shown any kind of affection—toward me or anyone else. She grips my hand hard, trembling, her eyes holding mine. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something. Instead, she releases me, stiffens her spine, and turns back to the sink.

“Don’t keep him long,” she says. “He gets tired.”

In the living room, a gas lamp hisses, casting yellow light on a brown sofa, two rocking chairs, a rustic coffee table. A cast-iron woodstove squats in the corner. The bishop lies on a cot, his head and shoulders propped on pillows, an afghan thrown over his legs. He’s dressed, less his usual jacket and hat. He’s always been larger than life to me, especially those piercing eyes that miss nothing. This afternoon, clutching an ancient copy of Martyr’s Mirror in hands that aren’t quite steady, he looks fragile and pale as he takes my measure.

For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, unspeaking. “How are you feeling?” I ask after a moment.

“Stronger,” he tells me. “Thankful.”

I move closer, trying not to notice the needle marks and scabs on the backs of his hands. “Vernon and Rosanna Detweiler are being extradited to Holmes County,” I tell him. “They’ll face an array of felonies here, not the least of which is murder. I thought you should know.”

“I will pray for them.” The old man nods, thoughtful. “The Amish community will support them.”

Forgiveness is one of the hallmarks of the Amish faith. I’m well aware that the capacity to forgive is a virtue, but I knew at an early age that it was a tenet I would never be able to put into practice.

“Bishop Troyer, I know what you did. I know Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz took a newborn infant from Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler. I know they brought that baby to you here in Painters Mill. I know you took her to the Helmuths and asked them to raise her as their own. I know that infant is Elsie Helmuth.”

The old man stares at me, impassive. “Es voah Gottes wille.” It was God’s will.

“How much did the Helmuths know?”

“I told them nothing.”

“Bishop Troyer, you can’t take a baby from someone and just give it to someone else.”

“She was taken to a family member. It was up to them to work things out.” His expression doesn’t alter. “What we did, Katie, it was the only way to save the life of the child.”

“You should have gone to the police. There are laws in place to protect children at risk.”

“And have the child taken by the social services people?” His voice clangs like steel against steel. “To be raised by strangers who do not understand the Amish way? I think not. It was an Amish matter to be handled by the Amish.”

I’ve heard the sentiment a hundred times over the years. Every time it grates on my sensibilities. This time, it’s particularly painful, because this man’s rigid adherence to Amish doctrine may have contributed to the deaths of four people.

“Had you gone to the police, Mary Yoder would still be here,” I whisper. “Sadie Stutzman. Noah Schwartz. That wasn’t God’s will.”

He stares at me, the steel gone from his eyes, his expression faltering. “It’s done, Katie. We can’t go back and change it.” Wincing, he leans forward and sets the book on the coffee table. “I prayed to God for the wisdom to do the right thing. I did the best I could. We had no way of knowing this would happen. Had we not acted, Elsie Helmuth might have died before she ever had the chance to live.”