CHAPTER 1: SOLOMON’S SECRET
It had been many years since I had last seen my old school mate Solomon and I doubtless wouldn’t have recognized him in passing. The gangly pale boy with piercing blue eyes and quick smile in my memories was now a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair and watery gaze from behind wire rimmed spectacles.
His tall frame was now slightly stooped and carried a weight of defeat as though he was burdened by worry.
I noticed he still wore the plain garb of the Old Order Amish which surprised me. I would have bet money that Solomon Miller was Most Likely to Leave our Amish community, as I had so many years ago.
Over the years we had lost touch although I heard he had gotten married and his wife had died in childbirth.
I could still see his tall frame bent over books at school, his thin lips silently forming the English language as he read eagerly and with increasing speed.
We shook hands at the entrance to the diner and I was mildly surprised by his arrival in an Uber taxi instead of a horse-drawn buggy by and by his limp grasp.
The waitress led us to a table by a window overlooking the street in our miniscule Michigan hometown, a stone’s throw from the Indiana border. Our view was marred by the heavy March rain which obscured the neat red brickwork of the hardware store across Main street.
As with many small Midwestern towns there was a faded air of a once prosperous era that gracefully accepted its decline.
The diner was nearly empty and our steaming coffees and platters of eggs and hashbrowns were promptly delivered.
A radio softly serenaded us with country-western music.
“How long has it been?” I grinned at the stern gaze across from me.
“I’ll be forty-nine this year.”
Solomon attempted to return my grin but instead grimaced. He smoothed his long graying beard.
I sipped the steaming black coffee before me and waited.
Solomon had, after all, contacted me with a neatly written letter that he would like to meet but no reason was given and the oddly formal handwriting did not even hint at any nostalgic sentiment. Indeed I had had to furrow my brow at the unexpected letter that arrived in my mailbox in Detroit the previous week. Amish men were not known for their sentimentality, more for their practicality.
“I understand you’re a writer now.”
Solomon absently stirred cream and sugar into his mug. I laughed and shrugged at my oeuvre of Midwestern myths and legends that were carried by a few Detroit bookstores.
I instinctively felt his small talk was buying time while he decided on how to broach the matter on his mind that he had omitted from his letter.
“Your family moved from Berne, Indiana to Michigan… you’re Swiss Amish.”
At last he had begun formulating the reason for our vaguely mysterious meeting.
“That’s right.”
I smiled quizzically at Solomon who in turn focused his attention to the heavy rainfall outside.
“Have you ever had an ancestry DNA test done?”
Solomon blurted out at long last.
Old Order Amish were well known for their genealogy books and ability to trace their ancestors back to Medieval times. This struck me as strange.
“I have and we are from France and Switzerland, the Emmental Valley region I believe.”
I knew Solomon and I weren’t related however I imagined his ancestors immigrated to America from Germany or perhaps Holland as had most in our Amish community.
Solomon removed a thick wad of papers which he silently handed me over our cooling food. I immediately saw the logo for the well known ancestry tracing company that delivered impressively comprehensive results.
I scanned the documents, arching a brow.
“Romania?”
That was a surprise to me. As far as I knew few Amish derived from Eastern European countries although it was feasible if slightly shocking. Then again the Reformation movement had been a tumultuous period of great passion and change.
Solomon winced as though I had loudly cursed and under his breath asked if I had heard of “brauche” or “pow-wowing” which was folk faith healing; as far as I was concerned, an ancient superstitious practice from even before Martin Luther’s day, likely carried across the Atlantic from the earliest Anabaptists in Germany. “The Sixth and Seventh Book of Moses” and “Book of Albertus Magnus” were often cited in brauche or pow-wowing. There were links to Rosicrucians and practitioners had to be devout Christians.
“Did your mother ever practice brauche?”
Solomon asked, his gaze fixed at the rainy scene through the window.
The oral Pennsylvania Dutch language used by Amish rolled off the tongue similar to German thus brauche was pronounced by rolling the R and H. The origin of the term pow-wow is still debated.
I was silent as the waitress bustled over to refill our coffees and frown at our uneaten breakfast.
At last I shook my head no.
“I think that comes from the Black Forest region of Germany although I can’t be sure.”
Solomon nodded and pointed to the papers in my grasp. I studied his ancestry DNA results more closely: on his paternal side he was descendant from Romania but on his maternal side his lineage placed him from the Black Forest area of Germany.
“Mom was a witch, Dad practiced hexing too.”
Solomon stated in an even tone but I could sense the underlying tension in his voice.
Our small Michigan community was a world away from Berks County, Pennsylvania which was historically the hotbed of Amish practitioners of faith healing including Johann George Hohmann who authored the curious handbook of hexing recipes, incantations, herbal remedies and Gypsy charms titled “Long Lost Friend”.
Indeed at this moment Solomon handed me a copy of the book and I flipped it open to read:
TO EXTINGUISH FIRE WITHOUT WATER – Write these words on each side of a plate, and throw it into the fire and it will extinguish forthwith:
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
The biographical details of the German immigrant remain as murky as his esoteric magic and place of burial.
Most Amish today frown upon pow-wowing – it hurt the lucrative Amish tourism industry – but Berks County is very much the exception even today.
I shrugged lightly and returned to the papers and somewhat sensational family tree. Another maternal relative was from Tomar, Portugal which was stunning in itself although I doubted Solomon was aware of the significance of this namesake. The DNA test helpfully concluded that he was at high risk for hypertension and diabetes. I imagined generational trauma as well but stayed silent.
At last I flung the papers down and met Solomon’s eyes.
He was even paler if that was possible.
“I admit I am surprised by all this but European peasants in the Middle Ages had their own ways.”
My lofty conclusion seemed to anger him, his next words hissing between clenched teeth.
“My daughter is a witch, Dad taught her.”
I must have looked confused as Solomon leaned closer, his tired eyes suddenly as piercing as I remembered.
“They’re trying to kill me.”
I drove Solomon to my home in Detroit and it was not until he collapsed upon my living room sofa that he was able to relax. Tension had radiated from his body for the entire two and a half hour drive. Once in the city his attention was temporarily distracted by the grandiose architecture and passing cars blasting rap music.
Solomon in his Amish garb and long beard looked out of place in my living room with the nearby television, wet bar and art prints on the walls.
I fixed him a whisky which he sipped gratefully and sat down to examine the ancestry papers at length. I had been so focused on the pre immigration history that I had overlooked the destination of his ancestors: Berks County, Pennsylvania. It was both sets of Solomon’s grandparents who had moved to the Midwest.
I felt like I was missing something.
“Faith healing is not dark magic, one uses Bible verses and has to be Christian to practice it.
“Some Amish may claim differently and I have read about the famous ‘1928 Hex Hollow Murder’ but why would they try to murder you Solomon?”
He slumped back in his seat.
“They think I’m a vampire.”
Romania. Of course.
I now understood Solomon’s secret.
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