The Road Home (13 page)

Johnny watched intently as the long file of machines turned the corner of the big field and came along the fence line. They obviously had just started working this particular field because they only had a few swaths cut and baled. As they passed close by him, Johnny heard some of the men singing.

“
Lassen Sie ihn, der gelegen hat, seine Hand auf dem Pflug nicht sehen sich um! Presse zur Absicht! Presse Jesus Christus! Derjenige, der Christus gewinnt, wird sich mit ihm von den Toten am jüngsten Tag erheben
.”

Without knowing why, Johnny waved at the men. A man in a black hat waved back at him. Then the emptiness that had been so poignant back in his flat in San Francisco filled his heart again. Suddenly, powerfully, a realization swept over him—nothing about his life and how he was living made any sense. The only thing that was real for him in that moment were the men and their horses and machines and the land they were working.

The smell of the fresh-cut hay rose up to him, and the hot sun beat down on his face. To his surprise, Johnny found tears in his eyes. Why, he didn't know. Maybe he was crying for the lost dreams of his youth, or for the foolishness that had gotten him into such a mess, or for the fact that he had never really known his father. Soon, great sobs were
torn out of him, and he clung to the fence to keep from falling. His head was down, and he didn't hear the approach of the man with the black hat until he was standing next to him.

“Are you all right, son?” a quiet voice asked.

Johnny looked up with tears streaming down his face. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and then tried to answer.

“I…I don't know what happened to me. I was just watching you harvest this field and listening to the song and it was so beautiful and it just touched something in my heart…” Johnny choked up for a minute and then went on. “Who are you and why are you using horses and…”

The man smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “We are the Amish, the Plain people. We don't use modern tools because they're of the world, and we have separated ourselves from such things. We live the simple life, and that's what keeps us faithful to our God.”

“Amish. Of course! I met a girl today who said she was Amish, but I didn't really know what that meant except I know that the Amish don't get drafted.”

“Ah, the draft. Yes, that's true; we don't fight in wars. Jesus tells us it's wrong to kill other men.”

“What does the song mean…the one you were singing?” Johnny asked.

“Let him who has laid his hand on the plow not look back. Press on to the goal! Press on to Jesus Christ! The one who gains Christ will rise with Him from the dead on the youngest day.”

Johnny looked into the kindly face and the soft eyes of the man, and suddenly a longing to be safe came over him. He felt more tears rolling down his cheeks. In the distance he heard a man's voice calling.

The man squeezed his shoulder. “Maybe you have troubles that you should give to Jesus Christ, my boy. If you do, He will help you.” Then the man looked away at the group passing by. “I must go then. The men need my help. God's blessing on you.”

The man turned and walked away, and Johnny wanted to jump over the fence and run after him and join the men as they worked and sang, but instead he just stood looking after the retreating figure.

About a half-hour later, Johnny pulled up in front of Dutch's Garage in Apple Creek. Inside, he found a thin man with bushy eyebrows bent over a bench. He was dressed in blue mechanic's overalls with a welder's cap on his head. The place smelled of oil and metal, and a large stove made out of two fifty-gallon drums stacked on top of each other stood in the middle of the shop. The stove was glowing red. The man looked up and smiled when Johnny walked in. He put down the part he was working on and stepped out from behind the bench. He picked up a rag and wiped some kind of grease off his hands as he walked over.

“What can I do for you, hoss?” he asked.

“I think I need some work done on my front-end suspension. I ran up on a curb, and I think I bent something. A sheriff named Bull over in Wooster was kind enough to send me here. He said that Dutch's place was the best, so I guess you're Dutch?”

“That would be me,” Dutch said, offering a grimy hand. “And you are…?

“Johnny, Johnny Hershberger.”

Dutch gave him an odd look. “So Bull Halkovich sent you my way. He's a good friend. How is Bull?”

“Well, it wasn't exactly a social call. He was trying to run me out of town, but I couldn't get very far with my van banged up.”

“Okay, let's take a look,” Dutch said.

They walked out to the van, and Dutch got down and looked under the front end. After a few minutes he popped back out.

“Yep, the tie bar is bent. You must have banged it good.”

“Can you fix it?” Johnny asked.

Dutch fixed a stare on Johnny. “Son, I can fix anything. That is, if I have the part. I don't keep parts handy for this here German-made car since I mostly work on American cars. But I can make a few phone calls and get the part shipped over here. Shouldn't be more than a couple of days.”

“A couple of days?” Johnny frowned. The fear of the drug dealers came back over him.

“Got any money, boy?” Dutch asked.

“Sure. Do you want a deposit?”

Dutch took off his cap and scratched his grizzled head. “Well,” he said slowly, “given that I don't know you, that would probably be a good idea. How about fifty dollars? Oughta cover the whole shebang.”

Johnny fished the money out of the pocket of his striped pants. “Are there any motels in town that are close by?”

“Sure, the Bide-a-Wee is just down the street. Nice rooms for a real good price. I think Jonas has a weekly rate too.” Dutch said. “There's a restaurant right across the street. And if you have need of transportation, I got a loaner out back. Seein' as how I'll have your truck and all.”

Dutch looked the van over. He gave Johnny another one of his curious looks. “You wouldn't be needin' a paint job, would ya? Twenty-five dollars, and she's as good as new. Scrape all that hoo-haw right off and paint her a nice inconspicuous blue.”

“I'll think about it, Dutch,” Johnny said. “It would probably be a good idea to keep a little lower profile out here.”

Dutch smiled in agreement.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Bitter Words

J
ENNY WATCHED FROM HER DESK
as the man picked up the key to the microfiche room and headed there. When he went inside, she slipped quietly up the hallway and followed him in. He was waiting for her and stuck out his hand.

“Hi, Jenny. I'm Bob Schumann.”

Jenny took his hand and shook it. He was a nice-looking older man with white hair and a pleasant smile. He had on an Ohio State jacket and a Cincinnati Reds baseball hat pushed back on his head. The smile wrinkles around his eyes belied the gruffness she had sensed on the phone. A briefcase sat on the desk behind him.

Jenny went to the files, pulled out the filmstrips, and handed them to Schumann. He sat down at the reader and quietly perused the two articles. Then he turned to Jenny.

“I remember when I wrote this story. It was a real mystery in nineteen fifty-one, and the fact that there was heroin in the car was a huge deal back then. Nowadays, with all the stuff going on in San Francisco and New York, the drug angle isn't so exciting. It's always bothered me that all the leads in this story were dead ends.”

“What can you tell me about the man?” Jenny asked.

“Not much more than what's here,” Bob said. “They did an autopsy, and the cause of death was drowning. The only possible identifier they found on him was a large tattoo.”

“A tattoo? That wasn't in the story,” Jenny said.

“I made a sketch of it at the coroner's office when they let me view the body, but the police chief made me leave it out of the article. Seems that it was a popular tattoo with the servicemen during the war, and the sheriff didn't want anything bad reflected on our local vets, what with the heroin and the empty liquor bottles they found. It didn't seem important at the time, so I pulled it.”

“Describe the tattoo to me,” Jenny said.

“Very large, located on his left shoulder,” Bob said. “Well here, let me show you.”

Schumann opened the briefcase and rummaged among some papers. He pulled out a sheet with a rough drawing in the middle. The picture was of a large, ornate tattoo of the patriotic type common among servicemen. The Statue of Liberty was in the center, surrounded by four flags, two on each side. Above the tattoo it said, “God Bless America,” and right under the statue were some Roman numerals.

“Notice the number under the statue. When I compared it to other tattoos like it, they didn't have a number. I've always remembered it, maybe because it was like a palindrome.”

He wrote the number in larger letters beneath the drawing: IVIII IIIVI.

“Is there any significance to the number?” Jenny asked.

“I didn't find any at the time.”

“Didn't you say that the tattoo was popular with men in the military?” Jenny asked.

Schumann nodded.

“Well, what if it's some kind of identifying number like a dog tag or a social security number?”

Schumann's eye's brightened, and he pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket and perched them on his nose to take a closer look. After a minute he looked at Jenny over the glasses.

“You know, Jenny, you may have something there,” Schumann said. “The Navy issued commission numbers to officers. By the end of the war there were at least three hundred sixty thousand of them. Most of the ones over a hundred twenty-five thousand were issued at the beginning of the war.”

Jenny looked at the Roman numerals. “What if these numerals actually represent a large number, and it was the only way to write it in this form. Let's see. One, five, three, a break, and then three, five, and one. What if the number is actually this?” She wrote down the number.

Schumann stared at Jenny's figures. “Jenny, you could be right. It would fit the pattern of naval commission numbers. Our boy could have been a Naval officer!”

“Where could we find a list of those numbers and who they were issued to?” Jenny asked.

“War Department or the VFW. You'd have to know somebody who's a vet.”

“My papa won the Congressional Medal of Honor. Do you think that might give him access to some of these records?”

Bob Schumann smiled. “Say, young lady, if you ever decide to leave the Amish faith, I could get you a job at the newspaper. You've got the makings of a good investigative reporter.”

“Well, Mr. Schumann, I probably wouldn't have to leave the faith to write for you. I'm a history intern here at the library and have already written several articles about the local Amish and their contribution to Wayne County and the state of Ohio. I'm putting together a book that I'm hoping to publish someday. You might find some of the
information of interest to your readers. But first I have to solve the mystery of my birth mother.”