Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

Having grown up Amish, I have mixed feelings about the lifestyle. Like most things in life, there was some good and some bad, with a whole lot of in-between thrown in. Leaving was the right decision for me, the only one I could have made at the time. But it wasn’t done without some regret. One of the things I loved most about being Amish was the sense of community, of belonging, of being part of something bigger than myself. I loved the way my Amish brethren pulled together in the face of tragedy. It didn’t happen that way when disaster struck my family, but looking back, I realize now that we were an anomaly.

By the time I leave the barn, the Amish have begun to arrive in force. Men wearing work clothes and insulated coats congregate near the barn. I know they’re here to feed the livestock, clean the pens, and keep the farm up and running. The women will busy themselves with household chores—laundry, cooking, and caring for the children. In the coming days, the Slabaugh house will be overflowing with the help of a community that is as generous as it is selfless.

I spot the bishop’s buggy parked near the back door as I head toward the house. A boy not much older than the youngest Slabaugh child tends the old horse. Two additional buggies I don’t recognize are parked behind the bishop’s. Beyond, the windows of the house are illuminated by yellow lantern light.

I enter to the aromas of kerosene, wood smoke, and cinnamon. T.J. stands near the back door, looking out of place and uncomfortable. His relief is palpable when he spots me. “Bishop Troyer arrived, Chief.”

I give him a nod. To my left, two plump Amish women wearing traditional garb—homemade dresses with white aprons, their hair tucked into organdy kapps —stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen counter. One of the women rolls out a round of lard and flour pastry crust. The other slices apples into a large plastic bowl. I’m not surprised to see that they’re making pies. If food were a cure-all, the Amish would be the healthiest culture in the world.

Moving into the next room, I see Bishop Troyer and a silver-haired woman sitting in straight-backed chairs someone dragged in from the kitchen. All four Slabaugh children sit side by side on a sofa, lined up like sad little ducks. One of the cushions has a hole in it. I see a closely matched piece of fabric has come loose, and I know at some point Rachael Slabaugh had tried to patch it. It was probably one of a thousand things on her list of chores. A chore she will never get the chance to complete.

“Katie.” The bishop stands and extends his hand to me.

“Thank you for coming.” I take his hand and we shake. “I’d like to speak to you if you have a few minutes.”

“Of course.”

The bishop looks over his shoulder at the woman. She gives a minute nod, telling him without words that she’ll remain with the children.

I’m keenly aware of the children’s eyes on us. They’re wondering about their fates, I realize. Where will they live? Who will take them in? Will they be kept together or will they be separated, the family shattered once again? Little Ike still looks at me as if I might be able to conjure forth his dead mamm. I know it’s self-defeating, but I feel guilty because I can’t.

The house is getting crowded, so I motion toward the front door and we step onto the porch. For the span of several heartbeats, the only sound comes from the tinkle of sleet against the roof.

I break the silence. “Do the Slabaughs have relatives?” It’s so cold, my breath billows when I speak.

“There is a brother.” The bishop looks out across the darkened field. “We will take care of those children.”

I wait for more information on the brother, but he doesn’t offer it. “What’s his name?”

“Adam.”

“Does he live around here?”

“Millersburg, I believe.”

I stare at his profile, wondering why he’s so reluctant to offer information about Adam Slabaugh. “I need to notify next of kin.”

The bishop turns his attention back to me. “What of the children, Katie?”

“Children Services will probably place them with relatives. Or the brother.”

The bishop shakes his head so hard, his jowls jiggle. “Not Adam.”

“Why not?”

“He is not Amish. Solly would not have wanted his children raised by a man who has been excommunicated.”

The reason behind his earlier reluctance suddenly becomes crystal clear. “Is there any other family?”

“No.”

“Bishop, with all due respect—”

He cuts me off. “These children were raised Amish. An Amish family would feel blessed to take them in and raise them as their own.”

“This isn’t a matter of Amish versus English.”

The bishop gives me a sage look. “Yes, it is.”

It’s an old argument, one that’s taken on a painful new twist this morning because four young lives hang in the balance. “The decision isn’t mine to make,” I tell him. “Nor is it yours. I’ll have to involve Children Services.”

For the first time, the bishop looks alarmed. “No, Katie. Do not do that. Your English government does not care about the Amish way. They do not care about the broken hearts of those children.”

I’ve known Bishop Troyer since I was a child. He was tough on me when I was an unrepentant teenager and made the decision to leave the plain life behind. We’ve had many disagreements over the years. But my respect for him is high. I’m old enough now to know he’s a decent man with a good heart and a fair mind. None of those things changes my responsibilities.

“Can you see to it that someone stays with the children until we get this settled?” Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t ask. In fact, I would have already notified Children Services and asked for a social worker to assist with placement in temporary foster homes. But because these children are Amish, I know they will be safe and loved in the hands of their brethren.

The old bishop nods and says, “Mer sot em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht,” which means “One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.”

I’ve heard the old adage before. Because I know life isn’t always that kind—even if you’re Amish—I don’t respond. “I’ve got to tell Adam about his brothers and his sister-in-law.” I turn to leave, but he reaches out and snags my arm.

“These children have lost enough,” he says. “Do not take them away from everything they know. Do not take their faith from them. Solly would have wanted them raised Amish. ”

I leave with those words ringing in my ears.

CHAPTER 4

There are few things I’ve done in my life that are more difficult than telling someone they’ve lost a loved one. It’s a helpless, hopeless feeling to break that kind of news and not be able to do anything as the bottom drops out of that person’s world. In my nine years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve seen grief in all its insidious forms. Though I’m merely the messenger, I’ve been cursed, screamed at, threatened, spit on, and struck. Cops aspire to believe they’re not affected by such things. But it takes a toll. That’s one of many reasons I’ve never put the burden of notification on my officers. Still, I don’t ever go alone. This morning, I’ve got Glock with me.

Adam Slabaugh lives on a well-kept farm on a quiet township road between Millersburg and Painters Mill. The old house is white, with a green tin roof, green shutters, and a wraparound porch that’s sheltered by a hulking spruce. The place sits on a hill, overlooking acres and acres of plowed fields. I park the Explorer in the gravel area between the barn and the house and shut down the engine.