The Amish Nanny (28 page)

W
e rode the train east through the bucolic countryside of green fields and patches of forest, past creeks and rivers. We saw houses of timber and stucco, with low, sloping roofs, their windows framed by shutters and fronted by boxes overflowing with geraniums. On a roadway near where the train passed, an older man was sweeping the street with a push broom. The yards and villages were tidy. Even the graffiti in the train tunnels was colorful and orderly.

We were traveling along the Jura Bernese Mountains, a range that Daniel said was much smaller than the Alps but that formed rolling hills ideal for farming. When the train stopped in Biel, we disembarked. George had a van waiting for us there.

After we'd stowed our luggage, he gathered us into a circle much as he had done in the parking lot of the shipyard in New York City.

“I know we're all in a hurry to get on to Amielbach,” he said, “but even if we drove straight there without any stops, we wouldn't make it before the end of the business day. Thus, Daniel and I would like to make a stop along the way, if you folks don't mind, at an important historical site. We're hoping you'll indulge us a bit, considering that we can't accomplish anything official on the title issue till tomorrow anyway.”

Alice and I looked at each other and then back at George, who added, “It's good practice for us because it will definitely be on our tour. And I know you'll find it fascinating.”

“Will it add significantly to our time?” I asked. I was torn, because while part of me wanted to see and experience as many things as possible while in Europe, I was also anxious to get to Amielbach. And I was worried about Alice, who still seemed pale and tired today despite a full night's sleep.

“Not at all,” George assured us, “especially if that's the only stop we make.” He looped his thumbs around his suspenders. “We'll be passing through several towns of historical significance along the way, but if we don't linger in any of those, we should arrive at Amielbach by early evening.”

That didn't sound too bad, but I deferred to Alice, who hesitated only a moment before saying it would be fine.

“Excellent!” George cried, clapping his hands together then rubbing his palms up and down. “Then all aboard. Our next stop will be the site of the Anabaptist Bridge.” I was trying to picture what it might look like when George added that the bridge itself had fallen down long ago, its remnants taken away.

Once we were in the van rumbling down the road, Daniel explained that the bridge was an old secret meeting place of our ancestors, people who had fled the area of Bern. They would gather in a ravine under the bridge, hiding from the Anabaptist hunters, as they worshipped together.

After driving for half an hour, much of it up a steep road, the van pulled into a small parking area and came to a stop. From there we hiked down a narrow and overgrown trail. Alice held my arm as we walked. When we reached the bottom and gathered around, Daniel explained that this was the only historical site in all of Europe that included “Anabaptist” in its name. Christy stood beside him as he spoke, looking up at him with her ever-admiring eyes. He was kind and attentive to her but seemingly oblivious of her crush. He treated her as he did everyone else—as someone eager to soak up what he had to teach them. I smiled, thinking that in the midst of all her adoration, at least she was taking in a history lesson as well.

Before we headed back up the path, George led us in the song, “I Sing with Exultation,” creating for us a moment of worship that was incredibly touching on this Sunday afternoon in Europe. Though I was engaged intellectually, I hadn't expected to react emotionally, so I was surprised to find that by the end of the song my cheeks were damp with tears.

Once we were back in the van and on the highway, Alice and Christy dozed for a while. Dusk was falling as we traveled past forests and farms—including more than a few dairy farms. They reminded me of home, and I thought of
Daed
caring for our cows, hooking up the milkers, cleaning the barn, day after day after day.

In the fading light we came into a wide valley, and the driver told us that the village of Langnau was just ahead. Sure enough we could see the outline of low buildings against the mountains. Alice and Christy both stirred.

Daniel said that Langnau had a population of nine thousand and had several small industries, including agriculture—which wasn't surprising, he added, given that it also happened to be the sunniest spot in Switzerland. That made Christy smile. The buildings there were solid and rustic with sloped roofs and shutters painted yellow and green. Abundant flowers filled these window boxes too. We passed a chapel with an ornate tower, and I asked with skepticism if that was the local Mennonite church, doubting that the Mennonites would have such a fancy place of worship.

“No. The Mennonite church is outside of town,” Daniel answered, “in the other direction.”

As we drove slowly down the main street of Langnau, Daniel said the place had changed surprisingly little since the Kesslers and Sommers had lived in the area. A mural of wildflowers was painted on the building across the street. Beside it was a bakery, and carved on a slab above the door was the date 1869. Perhaps my great-great-great-grandmother had bought bread there. I'd grown up with bits and pieces of stories from
Mammi
about how her grandmother, Elsbeth, had come from Switzerland to Indiana and had a big family. She told me her grandmother always missed Switzerland, even though she knew God wanted her in Indiana.

It wasn't until Lexie had given me a copy of the letter that had been in the carved box that I learned anything about Elsbeth's father, Abraham Sommers. I still had hopes of learning more. And I knew Alice wanted more information on her family as well.

As we left the outskirts of Langnau, the driver said that his own hometown of Wasserdorf was next. In English, but with a heavy accent, he described having grown up there, saying that twenty years ago, when he was a boy, he hiked in the woods around Amielbach with his friends.

“Back then the owner used to rent out rooms, like a boarding house,” he said. “All sorts of people stayed there—people who were down and out. Others who just needed a place to live for a short time.”

“The current owner is turning it back into an inn,” Daniel replied, “though something far more upscale this time around.”

The man nodded and then asked if we had family in the area.

“Yes, Ada's aunt,” Alice said quickly, saving me from having to answer. “She lives very near Amielbach.”

“She is an American?” he asked.

After a brief hesitation, Alice replied, “Originally. But she's been here a long time. More than twenty years now.”

The driver was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then his face lit up, and he said, “The artiste? There is an American artiste living on the grounds of Amielbach.”

Alice looked back at me. I shrugged. Perhaps Giselle was an artist, but I didn't know for sure.

The driver downshifted as the incline of the road increased.

“She does not dress like you people though, no?”

“No,” Alice replied, surely wishing this man weren't quite so chatty.

“You three ladies are Amish, correct? We have had the occasional Amish tour groups before, but I don't know of any Amish who live around here. We have Mennonites, of course, but they do not dress like Mennonites from America.”

George laughed. “Both Daniel and I are Mennonites from America—and we don't dress anything alike either.”

The driver nodded toward the middle seat at Daniel. “He would fit in just fine around here. But you? Not so much.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “None of the other Plain tourists I drive around ever asked about Amielbach.”

George smiled. “We like it that way—for the time being, at least. It'll be our own little discovery.”

“How long has it been since you have seen your aunt?” the driver asked.

It took a moment for me to realize he was talking to me. “What? Oh, never. She moved here when I was just a baby.”

He nodded and then said, “The wife of a friend bought one of her pieces.”

“Does she paint?” I asked.

“No.” He was searching for a word. “It is fabric.”

“Quilting?” Alice offered.

The man chuckled. “No. It is hard for me to explain in English.” He scratched the back of his head. “It is like a web. She does it with a big—” He took both hands off the steering wheel for a moment and made a boxlike gesture.

“Loom.” Daniel sounded pleased with himself.

“Ah,” Alice interjected. “Weaving.”

“That's it,” the driver said. “It is very beautiful.”

I didn't know any Amish women who had looms. Giselle must have learned to weave in Switzerland.

The road turned and the evergreen trees gave way to a meadow, but in a few minutes we were back in trees again. Dark and gnarled, the heavy branches hung over the road from both sides.

“This is creepy,” Christy whispered.

We rounded a curve and then the trees ended as the village began. Wasserdorf was much smaller than Langnau but every bit as charming. We passed homes with sloped roofs, a stone church with a steeple, and then a clock tower surrounded by a handful of shops. There was less traffic here as well, and fewer side streets leading off and beckoning us to explore.

Just a mile or two beyond the little town center, Daniel got my attention and pointed out of the window, saying, “The Kessler property is up on the other side of that ridge, though I don't think the waterfall is visible from here.”

Leaning toward the glass, I squinted, trying to see it better in the fading light.

“They want to build a retaining wall at the top of the falls and then put the hydro plant a few yards away from that.”

“Is he talking about the waterfall that's on your box?” Christy asked.

“
Ya
.”

We rode in silence for a couple more minutes and then Daniel said, “Amielbach is just around this turn.”

Then the massive building came into view, its turrets and balconies barely visible in the gathering darkness. Trees surrounded it on three sides—maples, oaks, birch—their leaves crimson and orange and gold.

“This is where your aunt lives?” Christy's voice was incredulous.

“Oh, no,” I said. “She lives in a little cottage nearby.”

The driver pulled into the circle at the front of the mansion, and Daniel and George helped him unload our bags. By the time we all reached the top of the steps, the door was swung open by a middle-aged man with a head so bald and shiny I wondered if he used some kind of polish.

“
Willkommen in Amielbach
,” he said.

“
Danke schon
,” Daniel replied on our behalf.

I thought this was the owner, Herr Lauten, but when they switched to English, it was clear that this man and Daniel had never met. He told us his name was Oskar and he was Herr Lauten's son.

“I came last week, from Zurich,” he explained to all of us in perfect English. “I manage a restaurant there, but I took time off to help my father get this property matter settled. He is overwhelmed. He has hardly been sleeping. He has practically torn the place apart looking for that agreement.”

Alice and I glanced at each other as Daniel said simply, “Is he home now? He's expecting us.”

Oskar nodded. “Your coming here is all he has been talking about. I haven't known whether to dread your arrival or welcome it. But you are here—so, what can I do? Six days from now, the township will claim the property and the waterfall. Then my father's frantic hunt for what doesn't even exist will be over. Now he's convinced himself that the authorities will honor the agreement on your word alone.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry you have come so far to witness this debacle.” He motioned us inside.

Biting my lip, I shot a look at Alice. She stared straight ahead, her face completely serene.

Inside, the narrow entryway was lined with carved benches. Moving toward a light, we emerged at the end into a grand room with a sparkling chandelier and an open staircase with an intricately carved banister. Looking up, I saw that a railing surrounded the open second floor. According to Daniel, above that was a third floor, though we couldn't see it from here.

The oak floor was polished, the light from the chandelier glimmering off the beautiful honey-colored wood. On the far wall was a carving perhaps six feet wide that ran from the floor to the crown molding at the ceiling. I stepped closer to it, trying to make out the scene it depicted. There was a waterfall, clearly the one on the Kessler property, and a group of people standing on the rocky ground around it.

Oskar must have noticed my interest because he said, “Abraham Sommers.”

I jumped. “Pardon?”

“He's the one who carved this. I've been told he was prolific and that his work can be found throughout the area.”

I found my voice. “I have a box with me that has a carving in a similar style.”