Amish Sweethearts (20 page)

“Jaalal is a respected elder here,” the guide explained.

“Peace to you,” the old man said, bowing a little to Sarge and then to Zane. “How are you? Are your souls healthy? Are you well? Are your families well? Long life to you!”

“Thank you,” Zane answered, remembering his training. “We are fine and our families are well.” Though he wasn’t certain about the health of all their souls. He found the long greeting charming. He’d been taught that the Afghans were polite and respectful. It seemed to be true.

The older man poured tea into little cups and added sugar
and powdered milk. He passed cups to Sarge, then Zane, and then the guide.

Zane sipped his tea, knowing serving it was as ancient a tradition as the greeting and served as an excuse to stop, visit, and enjoy the moment. The tea was sweet and good. As he put the cup down, the curtain in the doorway rustled, but Zane couldn’t see who was behind it.

The guide explained that Sarge’s group would be doing community building—focusing on safety issues, hygiene, and education but also assessing the infrastructure of local roads and services. He didn’t add that one of the goals was to win support away from the Taliban or that they hoped to gain intelligence to help stabilize the country. The guide spoke about the women in the group and that they wanted to get to know the women in the village. The older man nodded.

“They also want to take back space from the enemy,” the guide said, “to make sure this area is stable before the Americans leave.”

The older man nodded again.

Zane marveled at the word choices—
space
and
stable
in particular. It sounded as if the guide had been reading Army manuals. They hoped the villagers would trust the Americans instead of the warlords. But that trust had to be won—it couldn’t just be expected.

The group discussed strategies, compensation, and a game plan. They would start by visiting the eight villages in the area. The visits would take a couple of weeks at least. They’d use this first village as home base.

“Could one of the women in our group meet with your wife?” Sarge asked Jaalal.

“In the morning. She will have time then,” he answered. Then glancing at Zane, he said, “I will help the young man translate.”

Zane said, “
Manana
.”

“You are welcome,” Jaalal responded, a twinkle in his eyes.

Zane looked forward to working with him.

Sarge appointed Casey as the spokesperson for the FET, and the next morning Zane sat with her and the guide back in Jaalal’s house. This time his wife sat beside him. She was thin and weathered and hunched over a little as she held her purple scarf tight against her chin, but she had a sparkle in her eyes too.

After the customary greeting from Jaalal, Zane introduced himself and then Casey. The woman nodded. Zane was so relieved she understood him that he hardly noticed when she said, in English, “My name is Aliah.” She smiled, and Zane began to laugh.

Her husband explained that she’d picked up some English, but not a lot, through the years. Aliah motioned to the plate of fried bread sprinkled with sugar. Zane took one and bit into it. He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and then smiled. It was delicious.

“It’s called
gosh-e fil
,” Aliah said.

“Manana,” Zane replied.

Aliah motioned to Casey, and she took one too. When Zane finished his, Aliah insisted he take another.

A few minutes later, as they began discussing what Casey and her team had planned, the curtain over the doorway moved, just as it had the evening before.

Jaalal said something so quickly in Pashto that Zane couldn’t understand him. A young man pulled the curtain to the side and stepped through. He was small and appeared to be a young man, but his face had a weathered appearance, one of time spent in the outdoors and maybe of suffering great tragedy too.

“This is our grandson Benham,” Jaalal said. “He lives with us.”

Zane stood and shook the man’s hand, greeting him in
Pashto. Benham appeared shy and didn’t respond. Zane introduced Casey, but Benham simply nodded and didn’t look her way. Zane was pretty sure the young man hadn’t spent time with Americans the way his grandparents had. He slipped back through the curtain.

In a soft voice Jaalal said, “Our son and his wife, Benham’s parents, were both killed at the beginning of the war when he was six.”

“Taliban?” Zane asked.

Jaalal shook his head and without another word on the topic directed the conversation back to Casey’s plan. Zane did the math. Despite his weathered appearance, Benham looked to be about seventeen. If the Taliban didn’t kill his parents, then most likely the Americans or perhaps the Afghan army killed them, perhaps accidentally. Either way, it would have been a tragedy.

Two hours later, full of tea and sweet pastries, Casey and Zane left Jaalal and Aliah’s home. Zane was pleased with the progress they’d made, and by the look on Casey’s face, she was too.

“It’s about time,” Grant called out to them. “We’re running late because of the two of you.” Wade stood beside him, his arms crossed.

“Give me just a minute,” Casey said.

Zane didn’t respond but followed her toward the house where they were billeted. As he turned toward the door, he saw Benham standing at the far end of the compound, smoking a cigarette. Zane waved, but the young man turned his head away, toward a woman sweeping an earthen stoop. She wore the more traditional burqa, but by the way she carried herself Zane guessed she was older. Benham gazed past her, beyond the wall and toward the mountainside.

Excitement, apprehension, and confusion rushed through Zane as he entered the house. He liked Jaalal and Aliah. If he
could help Casey and her team make life better for the women and children in the villages, that would be a worthy task. If he could make a difference in the lives of Jaalal and his village, including Benham, Zane would count it a privilege. His heart swelled with gratitude. God really did have a plan for him.

12

L
ila talked with her supervisor and made arrangements to take a month off work. “Call me in a few weeks,” the woman said, “and let me know how things are going.”

Mammi wouldn’t have started chemo by then, but she should be nearly recovered from her surgery.

On Wednesday morning Reuben came over to do the milking, and Lila worked alongside him, showing him what to do. He slowly picked up on the tasks involved. He definitely was more gifted in working with wood than animals. Simon came out late, which annoyed Dat, but he didn’t say anything. Lila was sure Dat would enjoy working with Reuben more than with anyone else.

When Lila told Reuben good-bye and thanked him again, he smiled and then said, “I’d do anything for you, Lila. You know that.”

She believed him.

That afternoon Lila contemplated walking down the lane
to see if Shani was home, thinking she should ask her if she’d invite Trudy over more often while Lila was gone. But then Lila would have to decide whether to ask about Zane or not. She knew he’d left for Afghanistan. Shani, Joel, and Adam had gone to Texas to tell him good-bye and then had returned with his truck.

Lila put on her coat and boots and walked down the back steps. An icy wind howled through the tops of the trees. Dat was working at the lumberyard but would get off in time to pick up Trudy, so Lila didn’t need to go out. She looked out over the field toward the poplars and wondered what the weather was like in Afghanistan. She imagined it was hot, but she actually knew nothing about the country. Perhaps she’d pick up a book at the library.

A sense of dread overtook her. Zane was off to war. She knew he was a translator, but she also knew he carried a gun. Would he have to kill? She shuddered. He wouldn’t come home the same if he did—she was sure of it. She’d never forget the sorrow and anger in Joel Beck’s eyes after his time in Iraq. But she’d never know what happened to Zane, not more than what Shani or Eve told her. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked quickly, turning back toward the house. She wouldn’t go over to Shani’s—not now. She’d call once she was at her grandparents’ house. Maybe she’d be able to leave a message, a quick one, and not have to ask about Zane at all.

On Thursday she packed her things in the back of the buggy and then she and Simon took Trudy to school.

“I really love Beth,” Trudy said as they turned onto the highway.

“I thought she was supposed to be mean,” Simon teased.

“Strict,” Trudy corrected. “And she is, but she’s still really nice. She reminds me of you, Lila.”

Simon snorted.

Lila rolled her eyes. “Strict is good,” she said.

“No, you’re not strict,” Simon joked. “You’re definitely mean.”

Lila gave Trudy another hug after they climbed down from the buggy, and then Lila walked in with her and told Beth that she was going to help her grandmother after all.

“I’m so glad,” Beth said.

“Thank you for encouraging Dat to allow it,” Lila said in a soft voice.

Beth nodded, a glimmer in her eyes.

Trudy hung her coat in the entry, but Lila lowered her voice anyway. “I’m worried about Trudy. I’ve never been away from her.”

“I’ll show her extra care and kindness,” Beth said, patting Lila’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’m fond of all my students, but Trudy already has a special place in my heart.”

“Denki.” Lila sensed Beth was genuine. And she suspected that her love for Trudy had something to do with her being motherless. The woman had a good heart.

Lila hugged Trudy one last time. “When will I see you?” Trudy asked.

“Soon,” Lila answered. “I’ll let Rose know when she can bring you for a visit. Could you make Mammi a card?”

Trudy nodded, her lower lip quivering.

Lila hugged her again and hurried out the door as Beth wrapped her arm around Trudy. Once she was back in the buggy, Lila asked Simon if they could stop by the library on the way into Strasburg. “I want to get some books for Mammi,” she said.

“Doesn’t Mammi have her own books?” Simon joked, turning the horse back onto the road.

Lila ignored him. She planned to look for a few quilting books and some historical biographies. Mammi liked that sort
of thing. And it might be just what she would need to pass the time. Lila pulled the wool blanket up to her shoulders and stared at the white landscape as her brother drove down the Strasburg Pike. A strip of fog had settled across a field, hiding the bases of three silos on the far side. Their tops appeared as if they were suspended from the sky. Ahead, a willow tree hung heavy with ice. A border collie ran along the fence line, barking. Lila closed her eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like with Simon gone. She was almost glad she wouldn’t be at home. As much as he annoyed her, life would be so much duller without Simon around.

The library was new and built on the edge of town, surrounded by fields. When Simon pulled into the parking lot, Lila asked if he was coming in. He held up his phone and grinned. “But it’s so cold out,” she said.

“How long do you plan to be?”

She shrugged. “Not long.”

“I’ll come in if it gets too cold.”

She opened the buggy door and jumped out, wrapping her scarf around her neck as she hurried into the library. Heaps of snow had been plowed around the edges of the parking lot, and the sidewalk had been shoveled so many times that there was nearly a tunnel leading to the entrance. The library had just opened for the morning, and not many patrons were inside. She hurried to the section where the geography books were kept. She’d get the book on Afghanistan first, in case Simon did come in. She didn’t want him asking questions about her interest in the country, or more accurately teasing her about it. It took her a few minutes, but she finally found one.

She then hurried on to the biography section, pulling a book on Dolley Madison, one on Eleanor Roosevelt, and another on Helen Keller. Then she headed to the shelves that held quilting books. After picking out three, she glanced at the computers
and contemplated checking her e-mail. She could send Zane a short message. But she decided against it and turned toward the check-out desk as Simon came through the front door, rubbing his bare hands together.