Island of Saints: A Story of the One Principle That Frees the Human Spirit

by Andy Andrews

  Helen decided to turn him in when she got to town the next morning. She looked again at the sailor, who lay with his eyes closed. He certainly wasn’t going anywhere, at least not far. Wan would be at the café when she got there. He would take care of this.

  Shakily Helen got to her feet and began to move away when the man spoke: “I am so sorry about your husband.” Helen wanted to run, but Josef’s voice carried over the sound of the waves and held her there. “You can hit me more if you want. I do not have the strength, or I would do it for you. Can you kill me?” Josef began to cry. It was a wretched wailing that rose above the dunes and into the sky. His weeping held no tears, but was filled with anguished cries of hopelessness and shame. “Tatiana!” he screamed. “Tatiana! Rosa! Oh, God! My God!”

  Helen watched him without expression. After a time, Josef only sobbed. Looking toward her, he addressed the young woman in a voice louder than was necessary: “What was his name?” Helen simply stared at him. He spoke again: “Your husband . . . what was his name?”

  “Tyler Mason,” Helen replied. “Why do you care?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Not knowing why, and certainly giving it no thought, Helen walked over to Josef, grabbed him by the collar, and jerked. “Get up,” she commanded, and with her unpleasant help, he did.

  She draped his arm over her shoulder and said, “Walk.”

  “To where?”

  “My house is this way.”

  Josef struggled for breath and leaned heavily on the young woman. He felt her strength as she hauled him through the sand. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

  “Who said I was helping you?” she answered. “Shut up.”

  IT WAS ALMOST DAWN, 5:15, WHEN THEY REACHED THE COTTAGE. Helen dropped him at the bottom of the small home’s only stairs. She was already late for work. “There’s medicine in the bathroom and water in the icebox. Get up the steps as best you can,” she said to Josef. “Or lie here. I don’t really care which.”

  Helen bathed and was ready to leave in ten minutes. Josef still sat on the ground at the bottom of the steps as she drove off. She had not said a word to him when she passed.

  Josef propped himself against one of the cottage’s pilings and watched as the young woman drove off. She is a nurse, he thought, noticing her white uniform. She helped me because she had to. Josef knew that nurses and doctors took some kind of an oath that bound them to care for the sick and injured. He looked up the stairs, a distance that seemed impossible, but that he knew was not. What he had just survived was impossible.

  Josef had never lost consciousness. Not when he’d been shot, not when he’d finally made it to shore, or not when he made the long walk with the young woman. He had managed that by keeping his mind occupied trying to deconstruct the puzzle of Ernst Schneider’s actions of the night before.

  It seemed clear to him now that the Nazi had intended to shoot him all along. That was obviously why he had requested Josef as part of the deck party. It was also why he had “forgotten” the gold and sent Hans Kuhlmann below to retrieve it. Schneider wanted to be alone with Josef on the deck of the U-166. And except for the shabbily bearded man in the red-topped boat, they were alone. But what cargo had the small boat brought to the submarine that required only three men—no, two men—to off-load it? It couldn’t have been much. The boat left shortly after Josef was shot. And when Hans returned to the deck, how could Schneider possibly have explained Josef’s absence? There were too many questions and no answers for any of them.

  Josef had been stunned when Schneider drew the pistol and aimed at his chest, but not so stunned that he was unable to move. Twisting sideways at the instant of the first shot, he had avoided being mortally wounded, but the impact of the .32 caliber hollow-point bullet in his right shoulder was enough to drive him off the sub’s deck and into the water. Schneider had sent two more shots his way, one of which grazed his thigh before Josef had managed to hide in the shadows between the two vessels.

  He had dog-paddled with one arm to the other side of the old boat and, there in the dark, held on to one of the tires tied to its rail. Many smaller boats, Josef knew, used old tires as bumpers and had several on both the port and the starboard. When he had heard the diesels rev, Josef held tight and used the boat’s forward motion to take him out of the shadow of the U-166. Thirty yards away, he let go, intending to be far enough out for the sub’s searchlight to catch him in its glare. He was certain that Kuhlmann, his captain and friend, would soon be searching for him. But the searchlight was never turned on, and Josef had watched in astonishment as the U-166 silently slipped beneath the waves.

  Alone and beginning to feel pain from his wounds, Josef had feared not drowning, but sharks. He had known he was bleeding—how badly he could not tell—but Josef knew sharks could find food in an incredibly short period of time. And when they found it, they were not shy or polite. Josef, with the rest of the crew, had always watched in horrified fascination as the garbage was dumped from their decks. The monsters arrived in packs, and they were never long in showing up. How many times, Josef had thought as he struggled against the rising panic, have I dreaded dying this way?

  He had known the wind direction and current were both in his favor. The tide was rushing into the vast mouth of Mobile Bay, sucking everything with it in that direction. The wind and current where Josef floated, hanging to a timber he had washed against, ran almost parallel to the bay mouth’s tidal surge. Josef had remembered a huge sand bar from the submarine’s area charts. If he could just reach that, he had known, the wind and water would continue to push him toward the beach.

  When Josef’s feet had finally touched bottom, he walked the bar, alternately being lifted by the waves and swept with the current, for almost two more miles—all the way to the beach. There, he had dropped, almost dead from swallowed seawater, exhaustion, and loss of blood, but grateful for the absence of sharks.

  Crawling to the stairway now, Josef looked up at the cottage and wondered briefly how long he had lay in the surf before the young woman had come along. He pulled himself up into a standing position and swayed dizzily. Sitting back down, Josef rested before taking his time and backing his way up the steps, still sitting, to the door above.

  BY THE TIME HELEN ARRIVED, WAN HAD ALREADY OPENED the café and made the coffee. As deputy, he had a key to every place in town anyway and knew that Billy wouldn’t mind. Wan accepted Helen’s terse, “Morning. I overslept,” as all the conversation he would get, and when the Gilberts arrived soon after, they never knew she had been late.

  The morning went by without incident. Helen thought Margaret might be watching her a bit more closely than usual, but after their conversation the day before, Helen didn’t blame her.

  All the talk by the lunch crowd was about the bodies that had floated up and U-boats and whether anybody intended to fish that weekend. “I’ll fish from my backyard,” Weaver Sullivan told the other men.

  “You don’t live on the water, Sully,” one of them remarked.

  “That’s right,” he responded, “and I ain’t likely to be torpedoed off my porch neither.” Everyone chuckled grimly.

  “Hey, Wan,” one of the men called. “What’s that old peckerwood Harris Kramer up to? Pal says he’s showing up ever’ time there’s a sinking. That right?”

  Wan nodded, but before he could speak, another chimed in. “He ain’t selling fish. Nor oysters neither. You know he ain’t, Wan. But he sure seems to have plenty of money . . .”

  “Not that he’s spending any of it on that old death trap of a boat,” Billy interrupted. They all laughed, but the implication was clear.

  “Got to catch the man to arrest him,” Wan said with a shrug.

  “Aw, hellfire, Wan,” Hal Briggs said as he slid his chair back from the table and stood up. “Ever’body and God knows that creepy old weasel is helping the krauts. Now I say the sheriff and you or somebody ought to go down there and haul him in! Lock him up!” Several of the other men
murmured and nodded in agreement.

  A big man, Briggs was the president of First National Bank and a deacon at the Baptist church. People tended to listen when he talked, but Wan had an idea no one enjoyed the sound of Briggs’s voice as much as Briggs himself. Wan glanced at Billy behind the counter. Billy didn’t think much of Hal Briggs and Wan knew it, but Billy merely crossed his arms and smiled at his young friend.

  Briggs spoke once more: “Deputy Cooper? Do I need to ask again? Does the sheriff’s department intend to do something about Harris Kramer, or do we have to handle it ourselves?”

  Helen was watching from the kitchen. She saw Wan flush with anger, but was impressed when he replied in an even, cool voice. “I’ve already said,” he began, “‘got to catch the man to arrest him.’ You know, guys, there’s that tricky little thing about ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ So right now, no, I can’t do nothing. But you, Mr. Hal . . . you go right ahead. That’s a mighty nice offer to help. ’Specially since you got the biggest boat in town. I’m thinking all you guys’d fit on it. Get out there tonight. You can catch that joker red-handed, I’m thinkin’.” Wan stood up, pulled the money for what he’d eaten out of his wallet, and slapped it on the table. “Matter a fact, when you catch old Kramer tied up to a U-boat . . . arrest the Germans too. Hellfire yourself, Mr. Hal. Bring ’em all in. It’d be a big help.”

  As Wan walked out, Billy turned toward the kitchen to keep the banker from seeing the grin on his face. Helen had watched the scene anxiously, well aware that she had still not said anything to anyone about the German sailor who was, presumably, still at her house. Helen had intended to tell Wan about the man as soon as she got to the café that morning, but she hadn’t—and didn’t know why. And she had come close several times. At one point, Helen had even told the deputy she had something to tell him. He followed her to the kitchen, but she froze. Helen ended up stammering and saying again how much she appreciated Wan not saying anything about her being late.

  She got off at two o’clock and drove home, furious with herself for having said nothing. I should have told Billy, Helen thought. I should probably go back and get him now. Or Wan. Or somebody.

  When Helen wheeled the truck into the sandy driveway that led to the cottage, she came close to stopping and going back to town. Instead, she parked the truck farther from the cottage than usual, got out, and retrieved the tire tool from the truck bed. The man was not by the steps where she had left him. He was, she knew, either inside or gone . . . neither of which was good. I am an idiot, Helen thought. Go back to town. Helen Mason, go back to town.

  Stalking carefully to the cottage, Helen quietly climbed the stairs and saw a dark stain on one of the steps. Was that blood? Had it been there before? She wasn’t sure. The door was not open. But he could have closed it, right? I wish I had a gun. Helen stopped. Now, here was a thought that had not occurred to her. What about him? Does he have a gun? I didn’t see one, but then I wouldn’t have, really, isn’t that correct? What am I thinking? She reached out with a trembling left hand and placed it on the doorknob. Helen, you are smarter than this . . . go back to town. Get Wan and Billy. Do not go in that door.

  But she did.

  CHAPTER 9

  “DADDY, WHY DOES HELEN ACT MEAN?”

  The question from Danny came out of the blue, as so many of them did, and did not surprise Billy at all. His son often used the time they spent in Billy’s truck to talk endlessly about whatever came to his mind. At least twice a week, the two of them drove to Mobile or Pensacola for supplies. They rode with the windows down—even in the winter, except on the worst days—so that Billy could smoke and Danny could stick his hand out the window and let his fingers “ride the air.”

  “So why?” Danny asked again.

  Billy flicked a cigarette butt out the window. “Well, let me ask you this. Do you think Helen is mean?”

  “No, Daddy,” Danny said impatiently. “I don’t think Helen is mean . . . I was saying, ‘Why does she act mean?’”

  “Does she always act mean?”

  “No. Helen is nice to me. But sometimes, she is mean to Wan. And I saw her be mean to you one time.”

  Billy turned left onto Highway 98 and steered with his knees as he lit another cigarette.

  “Mobile today, right?” Danny said, recognizing the direction.

  “That’s right, Buddy Boy,” Billy answered. “Mobile today.”

  “So, Daddy, why does Helen act mean?”

  Billy had long ago created a level of patience just for Danny. He loved the boy with all his heart. And he was a boy, really, even though he was bigger than most of the men in town. The doctors had told Billy and Margaret that they would discover special gifts in their son that “normal” people did not have. Through the years, Billy especially had found that the doctors had been right.

  For one thing, Danny had a persistence about him that tended to annoy others, but allowed the boy successes in many areas. He simply would not stop trying until he achieved whatever he had set out to do. He would not stop asking until he got an answer that satisfied his question. He was not bothered by failure or the passing of time or the seeming impossibility of a task. Billy had been surprised to discover that he admired his son and was grateful for his presence. There existed a wisdom in his child that was different . . . and that he had not expected to find.

  Billy blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the window. “Okay . . . ,” he said, “why does Helen act mean? Well . . . you know Helen has had some tough things happen in her life . . .”

  “I know.”

  “. . . and because of those tough things, Helen has gotten mad.”

  “Mad at what?”

  “Well, Buddy Boy . . . Helen is mad at everything right now. She is a good person, and you are right . . . she is not really mean. But sometimes when a person is angry, that person can act mean. Helen has let her anger consume her. Right now it has become her. And anger is about the only way Helen expresses herself. You know, if all you have is a hammer . . . everything pretty much looks like a nail.” Billy paused. “And that’s why Helen acts mean.”

  Danny was quiet for a bit, looking out the window. Soon he spoke again: “Mama says that if Helen would forgive some people, then she would not be so sad. You are Helen’s boss, Daddy. If you tell her to forgive those people, then she will have to do it, and she won’t be sad anymore.”

  Billy chuckled. “I wish it was that simple, sweet boy.” He rubbed his face briskly with his hand. “Now, let me see . . . how to explain this . . . Danny, forgiveness can occur only because we have been given the ability to make choices. We have the choice to forgive or not to forgive . . . and nobody can make us do either one. You understand?”

  Danny nodded.

  “We begin to forgive by choosing to forgive . . . by deciding, not by feeling. Our feelings don’t lead us to forgive. Most times, our feelings lead us the other way. That’s why a person has to decide to forgive first. Our feelings always follow along behind our decisions.”

  “Forgive and forget, you mean?”

  “Hey, Buddy Boy,” Billy said, pointing to a gas station ahead, “you want to stop and get a Coke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You hungry?”

  “No, sir.”

  Billy sighed. Danny wore him out sometimes. He never had to think or focus as much as he did when he was with Danny. He lit another cigarette and glanced at his son, who was leaning against the opposite door, just looking at him. Billy knew it was just a matter of time before he . . . Okay, here we go . . .

  “Daddy . . . forgive and forget, you mean?”

  “Awright.” Billy smiled. “Lemme think here.” He thumped his ash down in the floorboard of the truck.

  “Mama says not to do that.”

  “Well, she’ll just have to forgive me, okay?”

  “It’s a choice she’ll have to make.”

  “Right. Danny, be quiet. I’m trying to think.” Danny crossed his arms and settled back
against the door. “Now, you asked,” Billy continued, “did I mean ‘forgive and forget’?” Danny nodded. “And the answer is no.

  “Forgive and forget is not reality. It’s not really possible anyway, which is a good thing, because it is not necessary. Forgiveness does not erase history or excuse what happened. What has happened . . . has happened, and nothing can erase the memory of it or its consequences.

  “Forgiveness means relinquishment. It is that simple. Danny, do you know what relinquishment means?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It means giving something up. To relinquish something means to give up whatever power it holds over us. If you forgive somebody for something he did to you, that means you choose to never again allow that event to determine how you feel or how you act or even how you treat that person. You may remember the wrong, but by choosing to forgive, you have disarmed it. Then it can no longer determine what you think, what you say, or what you do.” Billy flipped his cigarette out the window. “You got it?”

  Danny nodded. “I do.”

  HELEN DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER SHE WAS RELIEVED OR SCARED to find the German sailor on the floor in the bathroom. “Hey,” she said and prodded him with her foot.

  Josef was lying on his back. When he opened his eyes and saw her standing over him with a tire iron, he flinched and said, “You aren’t going to hit me with that, are you?”

  “Maybe. Get out. I have to use the restroom.” Helen noted the bruises on his face—both eyes were black—with an odd mixture of happiness and horror. Did I do that?

  Josef struggled to rise, but fell back almost immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I will do it.” He tried again.

  Helen reached down and took hold of the front of his shirt and pulled. “You’re still wet,” she remarked.

  Josef was scared and having trouble thinking clearly, but the woman’s comment still irritated him. Of course, I am wet, he thought. Where do you think I would get any clothes?