cried out.
Adrenaline surged through Snavely’s body as he followedStutzman to the milk house on the south side of the barn. Amish dairy farmers used the little rooms, neatly lined in clay tiles, to keep milk cool and clean until haulers came to get it.
“We’ve got to get her out!” Stutzman screamed again.
Snavely noticed some stainless steel three-gallon buckets and a milk strainer in a heap outside the door. Panting for breath, Stutzman swung the door open, and Snavely saw Ida, dressed in her Amish clothes—including her small, starched black scarf—lying on her back. Her feet were next to the door, her head farther inside. The woman’s pregnancy was obvious beneath her dark coat.
Stutzman muttered something about a heart attack as he lifted his wife up by her underarms. Snavely carried the woman’s feet and legs. Her uncradled head hung down. The men carried her across the road to the night pasture.
By then Stutzman had calmed considerably. He was quiet, and his body no longer shook in frightened spasms. On impulse, Howard Snavely reached for Ida’s wrist; he detected no pulse. Stutzman, who knew mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from his work at the hospital, did nothing.
Kidron fire chief Mel Wyss saw flames rising off the peaked roof of the barn as his fire truck topped Sand Hill. With the speed and efficiency of any big-city fire department, firemen started pumping water from a 1,500-gallon tanker—the small department’s only such unit.
Bystanders arrived. A few Amish from nearby farms came by buggy, but most were
Englischers
coming by car. Elam Bontrager was on the scene, although later no one from the fire department could remember talking with him.
Snavely frantically called for Wyss to come across the road to the pasture. “We have an injury! Mrs. Stutzman is hurt!” he called.
When the fire chief looked at the woman, he knew she was dead.
Wyss, who as a Sugarcreek Township trustee knewStutzman well enough to recognize him on the street, approached the Amishman to gather information for his report. Stutzman was nervous and excited, and no one could blame him for that. Yet, his reaction seemed incomplete. He was oblivious to the condition of his wife.
Wyss noted a few milk pails in the vicinity of the milk-house doorway. The heat was too intense for him to enter, but it was clear and smoke-free.
Stutzman looked on, blinking at the yellow light of the blaze. He told Wyss that his wife had awakened him in the middle of the night and told him the barn was on fire.
“I told her to go call the fire department and she left for help. When I came around the barn and went into the milk house, I found her inside. She was lying inside on her back. She must have had a heart attack because of the smoke,” he said.
The Kidron Rescue Squad arrived then. Of course, they were too late to save Ida Stutzman, but they still had a role: the Amish would ride to the hospital in their van.
Howard Snavely watched as the paramedics tried to revive Ida. After a few minutes, a young paramedic said softly: “She’s gone.”
Stutzman didn’t hear the fatal prognosis. He was busy discussing with one of the firefighters the lightning bolt that he said had caused the blaze. His mind seemed to be on things other than his wife and the unborn child she carried.
Stutzman’s seeming indifference to his wife’s death was considered by some a normal reaction to the most horrible of circumstances. It was a case of shock, some would later say.
Some things were missed or went unnoticed. It was dark, investigators’ eyes alternating between the dark of night and the bright light of the fire. It was hard to see certain things. No one gave the marks on Ida’s face and mouth any consideration.
Sue Snavely, who didn’t know that Ida had died, worried about the Stutzmans, although she barely knew them. The soft-spoken Amishman had been over to use their telephonea few times. Amish were hard to get to know. She wondered if
Adrenaline surged through Snavely’s body as he followedStutzman to the milk house on the south side of the barn. Amish dairy farmers used the little rooms, neatly lined in clay tiles, to keep milk cool and clean until haulers came to get it.
“We’ve got to get her out!” Stutzman screamed again.
Snavely noticed some stainless steel three-gallon buckets and a milk strainer in a heap outside the door. Panting for breath, Stutzman swung the door open, and Snavely saw Ida, dressed in her Amish clothes—including her small, starched black scarf—lying on her back. Her feet were next to the door, her head farther inside. The woman’s pregnancy was obvious beneath her dark coat.
Stutzman muttered something about a heart attack as he lifted his wife up by her underarms. Snavely carried the woman’s feet and legs. Her uncradled head hung down. The men carried her across the road to the night pasture.
By then Stutzman had calmed considerably. He was quiet, and his body no longer shook in frightened spasms. On impulse, Howard Snavely reached for Ida’s wrist; he detected no pulse. Stutzman, who knew mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from his work at the hospital, did nothing.
Kidron fire chief Mel Wyss saw flames rising off the peaked roof of the barn as his fire truck topped Sand Hill. With the speed and efficiency of any big-city fire department, firemen started pumping water from a 1,500-gallon tanker—the small department’s only such unit.
Bystanders arrived. A few Amish from nearby farms came by buggy, but most were
Englischers
coming by car. Elam Bontrager was on the scene, although later no one from the fire department could remember talking with him.
Snavely frantically called for Wyss to come across the road to the pasture. “We have an injury! Mrs. Stutzman is hurt!” he called.
When the fire chief looked at the woman, he knew she was dead.
Wyss, who as a Sugarcreek Township trustee knewStutzman well enough to recognize him on the street, approached the Amishman to gather information for his report. Stutzman was nervous and excited, and no one could blame him for that. Yet, his reaction seemed incomplete. He was oblivious to the condition of his wife.
Wyss noted a few milk pails in the vicinity of the milk-house doorway. The heat was too intense for him to enter, but it was clear and smoke-free.
Stutzman looked on, blinking at the yellow light of the blaze. He told Wyss that his wife had awakened him in the middle of the night and told him the barn was on fire.
“I told her to go call the fire department and she left for help. When I came around the barn and went into the milk house, I found her inside. She was lying inside on her back. She must have had a heart attack because of the smoke,” he said.
The Kidron Rescue Squad arrived then. Of course, they were too late to save Ida Stutzman, but they still had a role: the Amish would ride to the hospital in their van.
Howard Snavely watched as the paramedics tried to revive Ida. After a few minutes, a young paramedic said softly: “She’s gone.”
Stutzman didn’t hear the fatal prognosis. He was busy discussing with one of the firefighters the lightning bolt that he said had caused the blaze. His mind seemed to be on things other than his wife and the unborn child she carried.
Stutzman’s seeming indifference to his wife’s death was considered by some a normal reaction to the most horrible of circumstances. It was a case of shock, some would later say.
Some things were missed or went unnoticed. It was dark, investigators’ eyes alternating between the dark of night and the bright light of the fire. It was hard to see certain things. No one gave the marks on Ida’s face and mouth any consideration.
Sue Snavely, who didn’t know that Ida had died, worried about the Stutzmans, although she barely knew them. The soft-spoken Amishman had been over to use their telephonea few times. Amish were hard to get to know. She wondered if
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