by Andy Andrews
As Helen helped him out of the bathroom and into the hallway, she inadvertently felt his skin. He was burning up. “Wait here,” she said. “Give me a minute, and we’ll look at your wounds.”
While she was in the bathroom, Helen looked through the cabinet. It contained mostly her aunt Jean’s medicines that Helen hadn’t touched since the final days of the old lady’s life. Other than the usual home remedies, the medicine chest was filled with painkillers and experimental drugs for cancer that obviously hadn’t worked. I suppose I’d better look at him first, she thought, before I give him any of this stuff. What if it kills him? Helen shrugged as she unlocked the bathroom door and answered her own question. So what if it does?
“Have you looked at your shoulder at all?” she asked.
Now on the floor in the hallway, Josef shook his head no and said, “I am freezing. May I have a blanket?”
Helen stopped briefly, her mind racing. This man is dangerous. Stop, Helen! Stop right now! Get back in the truck and go for help. Move! “First we need to get you out of the wet clothes. Take them off and I will look at the wounds.”
Josef looked aghast.
“What’s wrong?” Helen asked.
“I cannot take off my clothes,” Josef said. “You . . . are a girl.”
Helen smirked. “Hurry up and don’t be stupid. I am not a girl. I am a woman and I have seen a man before, so just do what I say. Besides, I hate you, remember?”
As it turned out, Helen had to help him out of the wet clothes. To spare him the embarrassment, she didn’t insist Josef take off his boxers until he was beneath the blanket. The bullet hole in his shoulder was matched by an exit wound in his back. Helen supposed that to be a positive—that the bullet was not still in his body—and also noted that no bone was broken. The hole in his back was much larger than the one in the front, and although the bleeding had stopped, in its place a yellowish discharge had begun. It was infected, Helen knew—without a doubt.
She poured a whole bottle of rubbing alcohol over the wound and scrubbed it out with a clean rag. The pain was unbearable, and Josef passed out immediately. To Helen’s dismay, he was not even conscious to experience the agony as she treated the leg wound in the same manner.
In any case, the leg was not as bad. The bullet had dug a vertical furrow about four inches long and less than an inch deep. While he was out, Helen found a powder labeled “For Infections” and poured it generously onto both wounds and bandaged them up.
When Josef came to, he was still on the floor in the hall way, the blanket over him. The woman was not there that he could see. “Hello . . . ,” he called.
Helen came from the bedroom. “How do you feel?”
“Cold.”
“Can you get up?”
“Yes.” But he couldn’t.
Once again, Helen helped Josef stand. This time, she moved him to the couch in her tiny living room and helped him to wrap up in the blanket. He was still without clothes underneath and, while embarrassed, was cold.
“Do you need another blanket?”
“Do you mind?” Josef asked.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, but got another one anyway. “The police will be here soon,” she lied as she placed the second blanket over him. Why did I say that?
“You are a nurse?” Josef asked.
“What? No. I am a waitress.” Josef looked confused. “Oh,” Helen understood. “The white uniform . . . Nope, not a nurse.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Josef through glassy, feverish eyes, and Helen in her perpetual state of anger and distrust. “Are you from a submarine?” she finally asked.
Josef considered her question. Was there any reason to hide the truth? He didn’t think so. Was he still fighting for his country? Fighting? No. Well then, was he still even for his country? He wasn’t sure . . .
“Hey . . .” Helen snapped her fingers. “I asked you a question. Are you from a submarine?”
What is the harm? Josef decided. “Yes.”
“Odd wounds for a submariner,” Helen observed. “Don’t you guys usually drown? Who shot you?”
Again Josef pondered whether to answer, and he cautiously did so: “A man on my boat.”
Helen, who was still standing but had moved across the room, raised her eyebrows. “Really? Some friends you have there.”
“He was not my friend,” Josef said.
“No kidding.” Helen leaned against the wall and watched him for a moment. He seemed to be drifting off . . . or about to. “What is your name?”
He answered slowly, “Josef.”
“Your whole name.”
Josef tried to concentrate, but was feeling worse by the minute. He didn’t want to antagonize the young woman. She had almost beaten him to death on the beach the night before and obviously wasn’t any more fond of him now. Still, he was so dizzy . . . What is it that she wants? I am so cold. What is my name? I am a cadet.
“What is your whole name?”
Tatiana? Is that you?
“Hey? Are you listening to me?”
“HEY? ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”
Startled, Helen looked up with a jerk. “I’m sorry, Wan.
What did you say?”
The deputy pushed away from the café counter and stood up, shaking his head. “Never mind.” He reached in his pocket for his wallet. “It’s almost six. Billy and them’ll be here soon. Ain’t like you need any company ’til then.”
“Wan, please. Don’t be mad. I’m really sorry.”
He put his money on the counter. “Helen, is something wrong? I mean, no offense—you’re never really nice to me— but the past couple of days . . .” He made a futile gesture with his hands. “I mean . . . I only want to be your friend. Geez.”
“I’m sorry,” Helen said cautiously. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
The deputy shook his head sadly. “I’m glad, I guess.”
Now Helen was confused. “You guess?”
“Yeah. You know . . . it doesn’t make me feel great. Nothing’s wrong? So you just treat me badly for no reason?” Wan turned to go, then stopped and turned back. “Look, I don’t want to make you feel worse. I’m okay. We’re friends. You didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, did you?”
“No, Wan. Really I . . .”
“Then we’re fine,” Wan assured her. “Like I said, we’re friends. If you ever do need me . . . to talk or anything . . . well, you know . . .”
Helen watched Wan leave through the back door. Wan was her friend and she would not have hurt him for the world, but he was also an officer of the law. And a smart one at that. Helen was terrified.
It had been two days now since the German sailor—Josef—got so sick. He was still on her couch, burning up with fever, sleeping mostly, but talking too. And crying sometimes and shouting. He opened his eyes, but she knew he never saw her. The man was delirious, and she didn’t have any idea what to do.
She couldn’t call the doctor. And now, she feared she couldn’t tell anyone else, either. Sometime yesterday afternoon, Helen realized that she had waited too long to turn the man in. The questions from authorities, she knew, would now be pointed in her direction. She was hiding an enemy of her country.
The first customers came in a few minutes before the Gilberts, and Helen had already taken care of them. Coffee and toast only. “Where’s Wan?” was the second thing out of Billy’s mouth after “good morning.”
“Come and gone already,” Helen answered as she entered the kitchen. “I’m afraid he was somewhat aggravated with me.”
Danny and Margaret were curious about her statement, but it was Billy who smiled and asked, “Was Wan aggravated at Helen, the waitress? Or at Helen, his friend?”
Helen appreciated Billy’s tactful question and answered it with the first smile she’d managed all morning. “Billy, you know he wasn’t put out with ‘Helen, the waitress.’ She’s the best one you’ve got.”
“She’s the only one I got,” Billy said, and they
all laughed. He looked out into the dining area. “Pretty light so far. Those guys settled?”
“Done,” Helen replied. “Just refills of coffee now.”
“Well then,” Billy winked, “why don’t you three sit at table one right there and let old Billy make your breakfast. Buddy Boy,” he said to Danny, “help these two beautiful ladies get seated.”
For almost twenty minutes, Helen tried to participate in the conversation with Margaret and Danny. The breakfast, she told Billy more than once, was wonderful. But the man who lay on her couch at home was never far from her mind. It was strange, she thought. When I found him, I really wanted him to die. Now, I’m afraid he actually might.
Helen listened to Danny chatter away while mentally calculating her options. Okay, let’s say he dies . . . I can just hear myself . . . “Wan, you know how you said we were buddies? Well, I have this body I need removed . . . no, he wasn’t a friend, just one of the Führer’s finest I was hiding . . .”
Of course, if he lives, it won’t be any better—I’ll never be able to have a visitor . . . no way that would work. “Come in. Come in. Would you like something to drink? Just ignore the naked Nazi on the couch . . .”
The café slowly filled and slowly emptied. They worked steadily until 8:45 when Billy motioned for Helen to join him in the kitchen. “Do you want to take off early today?” When she didn’t answer immediately, Billy added, “You opened yesterday and today and . . . well, Margaret says you got something on your mind.”
Helen nodded. “I am tired . . . so if you’re sure you don’t mind . . .” She was trying to remain calm, but was actually frantic to get home.
“Yeah, go,” Billy said, “and you’re not the early bird tomorrow so that’ll get your sleep caught up.” As an afterthought, he asked, “Do you mind dropping Danny off at the church in Foley? I know it’s out of your way, but it’d save me a trip. Today’s his volunteer day for working in the garden.”
“I’d be happy to, Billy,” Helen said. “I enjoy Danny’s company. And thanks for the time off.” She reached up and kissed Billy on the cheek.
“Hey, now,” the old man said with a laugh, “if I’m gonna get kisses for time off, then take the rest of the week.”
In the few seconds it took Helen to hang her apron on the hook in the back room and say good-bye to Margaret, she and Danny were out the door.
“Do you know the way to the church?” Danny asked as he got into the truck.
“I sure do.” Helen smiled.
“There’s two of them, you know.”
“I know.”
“Two churches.”
“Right.”
“A big one and another big one.”
“Which one do you belong to, Danny?”
“The big one.”
“Not the other big one?” Helen teased.
“Nope.” Danny grinned. “I go to the big one.”
Helen headed north on 3. It would take her only about ten minutes to get Danny to the church, and then she could turn around and head home.
“You are the prettiest girl I know except for my mama. I’m sorry that you are sad and it makes you act mean sometimes.”
What? Helen worked to remain composed and respond appropriately. She was comfortable with Danny, but never ready for the things he said. He was a savant of sorts—a wise child—but he possessed absolutely no guile. He was innocent, honest, and totally devoid of tact. “Thank you, Danny. I’m sorry . . . was I mean to you? I didn’t mean to be . . .”
Danny reached across the truck cab and gave Helen a pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You aren’t mean to me. And anyway, you only act mean sometimes. You aren’t mean. I know because I talked to Daddy about it.”
Not knowing what to say, Helen opted for nothing and silently urged more speed from the blue truck.
Danny spoke again, as she knew he would. “I know why you’re sad.”
Certain she didn’t want to go there, but not seeing any other choice, Helen asked, “Why, Danny?”
“Because your husband died in the war. That’s the main reason.”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
“I know that’s why you’re sad, but is that why you’re mad?”
Helen could feel Danny looking at her and knew he would wait until she answered. “Um . . . Buddy . . . do you want to talk about something else?” Please!
“No, thanks.”
Helen sighed. She coughed nervously and asked, “Ahhh . . . what was the question?”
Danny spoke slowly as if he was explaining a difficult concept. “I said, ‘Your husband died in the war.’ Then I said, ‘Is that why you are mad?’”
Helen wiped tears that sprang to her eyes and gritted her teeth. Please, God, make him stop. “Ahmm . . . Danny . . . yes.” She cleared her throat. “I think that does make me mad.”
“But who are you mad at?”
At the moment, the answer was quickly becoming “you,” but Helen bit her lip and took a deep breath—about to take another stab at leading the conversation in a different direction—when once more, Danny began to talk.
“If you are mad at a soldier, I think you have to forgive him. You want to know why?”
Convinced now that her only option was to endure this torture for a few more minutes, Helen made a mental note never again to get into a vehicle with Danny Gilbert, then answered, “Yes.”
“I think you have to forgive him for you.”
Though she was trying desperately to tune him out, Helen could not help being curious about this line of thinking. “Why’s that?”
“Because whenever you get hurt by somebody, you can either think about ’em all day long and let ’em keep hurting you inside . . . or give them to God.”
Helen furrowed her brow. “Give them to God?”
“Unh-huh. If you forgive them, it doesn’t mean they get away with what they did . . . it just means that you don’t have to think about it all the time. You can’t do anything anyway, except be mad. See? You just give ’em to God. Then you can be happy.” With that, Danny smiled and nodded a couple of times, then faced forward in his seat, seemingly satisfied that he had solved his friend’s problem.
Helen was grateful for the silence. Give ’em to God . . . then you can be happy. She repeated the words a couple of times in her head and thought, Yeah, it would be nice if it were that simple.
She dropped Danny off at the church and headed south toward home. It was so strange, she reflected as she drove, that whole thing about giving them to God. She smiled at a crazy thought: So what does God do with them when He gets them? And she laughed at the ridiculous answer that popped into her head: What do I care? They don’t belong to me anymore.
CHAPTER 10
WHEN HELEN OPENED THE DOOR TO THE COTTAGE, THE first thing she saw was Josef, fully dressed in his uniform, sitting upright on the couch. She entered warily, noticing that he had, at least, possessed the strength to move about. It was apparent that his fever (and presumably its accompanying bewilderment) had faded away. Was he dangerous? Helen might have laughed had she known Josef was asking himself the same question about her.
“Hello,” Josef said tentatively.
Helen did not respond, but without taking her eyes off him, she set her purse and keys on the kitchen counter and moved to the sink to draw a glass of water. Noting the water glass in front of Josef on the coffee table, she said, “I would offer you some, but I see you helped yourself.”
Josef nodded. “I did. I had hoped you would not mind.”
“Found your clothes, did you?”
“Yes, in the washroom. Again, I hope you do not mind that I entered that private area. You were kind to wash my uniform. Thank you.” Josef watched curiously as Helen sat down at the kitchen table, not entering the living room where he was, instead keeping her distance. She is afraid ofme, he thought, or hates me with passion. Or both. “May I ask how long I have been here?”
Helen studied his face for any hint of deceptio
n. She saw only the black eyes and cut lips. “You don’t remember?” He shook his head. “You’ve been barely conscious for two days. High fever . . .” She shrugged. “I really thought you might die. How’s your shoulder?”
Josef glanced toward the wound. “I’ve never had anything hurt like this in my life, but I looked at it when I put on my uniform and . . . well, it doesn’t appear gangrenous . . . you took much care. Again, I thank you.”
After a moment, Helen said, “You’re welcome.” Then, “Are you hungry?”
Actually, Josef admitted, he was famished and soon was balancing a plate of biscuits on his lap. Helen had made them from scratch, not talking to him at all while she cooked. As Josef ate, Helen disappeared into her bedroom, and about the time he had eaten his fill, she reemerged, having changed into slacks and a blue cotton shirt. Barefooted, Helen whisked the empty pan from the coffee table as she passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen.
Josef sat quietly as she washed the plate and placed it back in a cabinet. When Helen finished tidying the kitchen, she wiped her hands on a dish towel, purposefully strode into the living room, and sat down in a chair opposite Josef. She said, “I have some questions.”
“All right,” Josef replied.
“What is your full name?”
“Josef Landermann. Josef Bartels Landermann.”
“How can you speak English so well?”
“I studied English in school . . . and I attended college at Oxford. That’s in Eng—”
“I know where Oxford is,” Helen snapped.
“Of course,” Josef apologized quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Who is Tatiana?”
“What? Why?”
“Who is she?” Helen demanded.
As his mind continued to disentangle from its webs of confusion, Josef was becoming increasingly cognizant of the perilous nature of his situation. There existed, in his vastly shrunken world, only one possibility of help . . . and it was this young woman—who had made it abundantly clear that she was not his friend. And yet she had saved his life. But for further reasons he could not yet fathom, she had plainly chosen not to alert the authorities to his presence. Would she help him escape? Escape? Josef wondered. What a ridiculous thought! Of course, she will not. Even if she did . . . escape to where?
