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

by Andy Andrews

  “Looking for submarines?” she asked.

  Josef showed the vaguest hint of a rueful smile. “At this moment, submarines are the farthest thing from my mind.” He pulled the top of a sea oat down to his lap without breaking its stalk and ruffled the blooms gently with a finger. “Actually I hope never to see a submarine again.” He added, “Though I do hope to see Hans one day. He is truly my friend . . . though I don’t know why he left me in the water.”

  Helen considered this and decided not to comment. Instead she asked, “Do you think about going home?”

  “Some,” Josef answered, looking once more to the Gulf, “but I do not know how it can be accomplished. Besides, it is not a burning desire.”

  Helen looked at him sharply, taken aback. “Don’t you miss your wife?”

  “Of course. You miss your husband, do you not?”

  Helen got to her feet in order to look down on Josef with warning in her eyes. Her cheeks flushed. “It’s not the same,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Why is it not the same?” Josef asked, meeting her gaze.

  Helen swallowed the rage rising in her throat. “Because my husband is dead.”

  “Then it is the same,” Josef said as he looked away.

  A seagull called nearby as Helen stared at him. The color drained from her face as the comprehension of Josef’s words took her breath. “What?” she whispered in disbelief.

  A single tear tracked down his face. “My Tatiana . . . my baby Rosa . . . they are dead too.”

  Helen eased down onto the sand again, closer to Josef, but not touching. “How?” she asked. “When? I mean, you don’t have to tell me if—”

  “No,” he said softly, continuing to look out at the water, “I don’t mind.” Josef drew a deep, lurching breath to stave off a sob and began.

  “I was home—Cologne—on leave. This was, what, only two and a half months ago? Thirty May . . . the night of . . . and I was to depart the next morning. After dinner, I lay on the couch in our apartment. My child, Rosa, went to sleep on my chest . . . her blonde hair was washed. It smelled like . . .” Josef’s lip quivered. “My God, she smelled like a baby, you know?” Josef gave an anguished cry, then put his head into his lap and wept. Helen closed her eyes and did not move.

  After a moment, Josef wiped his eyes and nose roughly with his hand and coughed, clearing his throat. “I am sorry.” He coughed again and seemed to gain a measure of control. “Tatiana took Rosa to her bassinet, then took me to bed. We lay holding each other . . . talking about our only child . . . making promises for more . . .

  “Then the planes came. I must have been asleep. Tatiana heard them first. She ran to Rosa, who had begun to cry . . .” Josef’s face was turned toward Helen, but his eyes stared past her, seeing the night of his horror all over again. “The sound was . . . strange. It was a hum that shook the air.” He paused. “Reports later said there were over one thousand RAF bombers involved in the raid.

  “So I ran outside to see what direction the attack was coming from. Where do I take my family? Which way is safety? Then the bombs began to fall.” Josef’s eyes narrowed, then widened. He looked at Helen. “A bomb shrieks as it falls. Did you know that? Like a woman dying . . . like Tatiana died . . .” Josef’s eyes fogged again as once more, he stared past Helen.

  “Explosions were everywhere . . . all around me . . . it was quiet, though . . .” He frowned. “It should not have been quiet, but I could not hear. Neither could I see which building was mine . . . which one Tatiana and Rosa were in. Then I realized they were all down . . . all the buildings, I mean.” His eyes widened, and he gestured helplessly. “But the bombs kept falling.”

  Helen wiped the tears from her cheeks as Josef lapsed into silence. A school of jack crevalle, slashing and swirling as they pounded menhaden near the beach, caught the couple’s attention for a moment. As the big fish sounded, Josef absently grabbed a handful of sand and sifted it through his fingers as he continued.

  “The bombing lasted only two hours, though it seemed much longer than that.” Josef shook his head disgustedly. “And I was unharmed. We—the people left alive—could no longer recognize anything. There were no landmarks standing . . . it was not dark, of course—everything was on fire. It was as I’ve always imagined hell.

  “I called for Tatiana . . . the night was filled with voices at that point. No one begging for help. Just hundreds of voices crying out names of lost loved ones . . .” Josef’s tears began again to flow. His eyes were open as he looked toward the sky. In the afternoon heat, Helen shivered as he murmured the names he remembered hearing that night. “Chloe . . . Gabrielle . . . Martin . . . Deidre . . . Bernhard . . . Suzanne . . .”

  He paused. “I began to dig through the rubble at dawn. It was almost noon when I found Tatiana. Rosa was in her arms.” He looked at Helen, an uncomprehending expression on his face, and said, “They were broken, but together. They were not bleeding anymore . . . they had no more blood . . .” He held his arms out helplessly. “They were just . . . gone. I told them I was sorry . . . that I loved them . . . but they were gone.”

  His face grew dark. “The Gestapo came then and pulled me up. They made me leave. They said my responsibility was to the Führer.” Then, collapsing completely, Josef wailed, “I was not allowed to bury them! I did not say goodbye!” He fell sideways into the sand and wept bitterly.

  Tears cascading down her face, Helen moved close to Josef and placed her hand on his back. She did not pat him or even press firmly. She didn’t speak at all, for her emotions were too unsure. Helen knew only that she felt his anguish and was compelled to convey her understanding in some way.

  When at last Josef gained control, he rolled over onto his back. Looking up at Helen, he said, “I know I must forgive. I can only hope it gets easier than it is at present to do so.”

  Helen frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we are products of our past, but we don’t have to be prisoners of it.”

  Helen shook her head impatiently. “No. I meant, what do you mean when you say, ‘I know I must forgive’?”

  “Just that I must practice forgiveness. It is less an act than a determined way of living. I think that is why we are supposed to forgive ‘seventy times seven.’ True forgiveness comes only at the conclusion of an inner struggle.”

  “Josef,” Helen said, “I am not making myself clear. What I want to know is, why are you talking about forgiveness at all?”

  Josef looked surprised. “Well, I suppose because it occurs to me that you and I both need to forgive the same thing.” When Helen didn’t respond, Josef tried to clarify his last statement. “Germans killed your husband . . . and in a way, I guess Americans killed my wife.”

  Helen was stunned. “What? That is the . . . I can’t believe you would even . . .” She was sputtering. Her mouth opened and closed. She was getting angrier by the second. Pointing her finger in Josef’s face, she hissed, “You are a German soldier . . . sailor, whatever. You killed my husband. He was an American. He had nothing to do with the death of your wife. The RAF bombed Cologne. You said so yourself!”

  Having listened to her words without reaction, he calmly got up and brushed the sand from his clothes. Before turning and walking back down the beach by himself, Josef withered Helen with a glare and said, “Yes, the RAF bombed Cologne. And your husband trained the RAF. Remember? You said so yourself.”

  THE BEDROOM FAN’S CALMING HUM WAS ENOUGH MOST NIGHTS to promptly ease Margaret into a restful sleep. The fan, set into the window by the chest of drawers, was a constant in her life, an audible assurance every evening that things were as they should be.

  Once, several years ago, Margaret and Billy had left Danny with a neighbor and traveled to New Orleans for the only vacation either of them had taken since their honeymoon. It was to have been three glorious days and nights at the Fairmont, a ridiculously expensive hotel near the French Quarter, but a hotel, they discovered, without a window fan. The fi
ve-bladed wicker fan turning lazily in the ornate hotel room’s ceiling was beautiful and did indeed move the air, but left the bedroom as silent as a tomb. After two sleepless nights, the couple checked out of the Fairmont and went home to Foley, Danny, and their noisy window fan.

  Margaret turned from her side onto her back and looked into the darkness. After only a moment, she sat up to straighten the sheet, then lay back down. Soon she was again on her side. When a problem weighed on her mind, Margaret was generally unable to drift off, and this night had been no different in that respect. And the fan had not helped.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispered to her husband.

  In a full voice that startled her and indicated that, no, he was not, Billy answered, “Rip Van Winkle couldn’t sleep in this bed. I’m having to hold on to the mattress to keep from being bounced out!”

  Margaret chuckled and snuggled close to him. “I’m sorry.”

  Billy put his arm around her and said, “That’s all right. What’s wrong? We gotta get up before too long, so you might as well tell me.”

  Margaret sighed. “Has Danny asked you anything about Helen lately?”

  “Um-hmm. Three or four times. You know how he is . . .”

  “Yeah, he’s been after me about it too.”

  “The ‘why is Helen mean’ thing?”

  “That seems to be the subject.” Margaret stuffed her pillow behind her back and sat up. The hall light, left on every night for Danny, mitigated the darkness and allowed Billy to see the concern on his wife’s face as she spoke. “Have you talked to him about forgiveness?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because that’s what he has been asking me about.” Margaret thought for a bit, then said, “You know, we’ve talked about this before. Danny feels things other people don’t. It’s strange, isn’t it? Sweet? How he’s so concerned about her, I mean?”

  “Well, why wouldn’t he be?” Billy said as he arranged his own pillow behind his back and sat up to join Margaret. “You’re concerned about her, and that shows. I am too. She’s a good girl. But, Margaret, you know . . . we been through this ourselves . . . forgiveness is a hard deal if you don’t understand it. And some people—like me and you were at one time—are so mad about the past that they can’t see the future. Forgiveness is letting go of the past.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Well, I haven’t said anything to her about it in a while.”

  “You can’t. You don’t know what she’s upset about, really. I mean, it’s all tied up with her husband getting killed . . . but beyond that, what do we really know?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I just wish I could grab her and shake her and tell her the truth. If she were a daughter of mine . . .”

  “Which she ain’t . . .”

  “I know, but if she were a daughter of mine, I could talk about this kind of thing with her.”

  “Margaret. It’ll come in time. Be her friend.”

  “I just want to tell her the truth about what her life can be like if she ‘gets’ this.”

  Billy reached over and grabbed his wife. Pulling her into a hug, he said, “Sweetheart . . . Helen’s having a hard time with the pain. She’s got a good friend in you, and I know you’re all full of ‘the truth shall set you free.’ And it will. But sometimes . . . first, it can make you miserable. That’s where she’s at. Give her time.”

  Even though they remained in a sitting position, Billy dozed off in the silence that followed. Margaret was careful not to move, her husband’s arm still around her, as she listened to his soft snoring. She smiled. Billy was a wise man, Margaret knew. He was well-read and smart as a whip, though she teased him about his manner of speaking that often, she laughed, kept his intelligence a “secret.” Billy said “ain’t,” “me and you,” “anyways,” and made no apology for his speech, but as terrible as Billy’s grammar could be, years ago, his “language” was infinitely worse. Margaret lay her head on Billy’s shoulder and remembered the day that changed.

  Billy had been well-known in Baldwin County for his creative use of oaths, expletives, and the intermittent obscenity. It was said that he could cuss a streak that often displayed many shades of blue. Curiously, however, this never, ever occurred in the presence of a lady. Or Danny.

  One afternoon over coffee, Margaret had asked him about that anomaly, and he’d responded with a grin. “First thing I want to know is . . . ,” he said, “how do you even know I swear?” She confessed that she had overheard him with other men on occasion. Billy had nodded apologetically and rationalized, “First of all, my daddy talked that way . . . That ain’t no excuse and I know it, but somehow, I guess I feel close to my daddy when I talk like he did.

  “I don’t talk that way in front of Danny ’cause it’s a bad example. He’s a child. And also because I don’t want ‘sorry language’ that he hears in the future to remind him of his daddy the same way ‘sorry language’ reminds me of mine. The reason I don’t cuss in front of ladies is respect. Respect for them . . . respect for you. Anyhow, that’s why I don’t swear in front of women and kids.”

  At that point, Margaret had taken a sip of her coffee and maintained eye contact with her husband, saying nothing. “You think that’s a crock, don’t you?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Do you want some more coffee?” she said simply.

  “You think all I just said is a d-a-m stupid reason for cussing, is that right?”

  Margaret ducked her head and averted his gaze. Trying desperately not to laugh out loud, she almost blew coffee through her nose when he spelled the word instead of saying it in front of her—and spelled it incorrectly! Slowly Margaret looked up to find Billy, bug-eyed, veins bulging, leaning across the table as if daring her to disagree.

  That had done it. Somehow, it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Like laughing in church or at a funeral, Margaret had known it was a terribly inappropriate response, but she just couldn’t help it. Worse, every time she attempted to calm herself, she glanced at Billy, saw his exaggerated expression of patient “hurt feelings,” and dissolved into another fit of laughter. Before too long, it had become funny to Billy as well, and both had laughed until they were exhausted.

  Margaret reached to take Billy’s hand and gently squeezed it three times. One . . . two . . . three. I . . . love . . . you. She closed her eyes. Over time, spelling the occasional curse word was enough to get them giggling like teenagers, but spelling was as far as it went.

  On that day so long ago, she had not challenged him, had not demanded, mocked him, threatened, or pouted. Margaret had asked her husband a question with an honest smile and was prepared to love him no matter the answer. And to everyone’s astonishment, Billy Gilbert had never cursed again.

  The laughter was a bonus, Margaret thought as she drifted to sleep in her husband’s arms. And it had lasted through the years.

  Billy and Margaret seemed ordinary in all respects, but as the seasons in their lives had passed, both had come to understand fully how extraordinary they had become together. Margaret possessed a gift of discernment and intuition upon which Billy had come to rely. Billy, for his part, provided logic and wise counsel. Whenever Margaret began to wrap her mind around a concept or a feeling and fully explore its implications, Billy’s role was to add comments, ask questions, and organize their conclusions into a clear, larger view.

  When they had gotten married, it was a discouraging shock—terrifying, really—to discover how incompatible they seemed, how truly different from each other they were, and they had almost divorced. But slowly they came to respect those differences, even rely upon them, until at last, in a blinding flash of the obvious, Billy and Margaret arrived at an amazing conclusion: If we were just alike . . . one of us would be unnecessary.

  When the breaking dawn lightened the bedroom’s east window, Billy slipped out of the bed. Soon he was back with coffee and a plate of buttered, toasted biscuits. “Hey, Sugarbear?” He nudged Margaret and presented the spare breakfast to her as she wok
e up. “Special surprise,” he whispered, “today only . . . I put cinnamon on ’em. You better eat a couple before I get Danny up. We need to get going. It’s coming up on six.”

  Margaret got out of bed without a word and quickly brushed her hair. Taking a bite of the reheated biscuit that had been baked at the café the day before, she listened to Billy as he awakened their son. “Buddy Boy! Time to roll, Son! Let’s go!”

  Margaret shook her head as she heard Danny chuckle and gave silent thanks that the young man was like his father in the way he greeted the morning. God knew, she wished she was. Early in their marriage, however, she had thrown a finger in her husband’s face one morning and said, “Listen carefully . . . yelling and loud is not the way I want to wake up. Clowns, insane people, and you may do it that way, but I don’t!” And from that point on, she had never had to.

  Billy came back into their bedroom. “More coffee?” he whispered.

  “You can talk now,” Margaret said wryly.

  “Oh, okay,” Billy said in a normal tone and with a total lack of sarcasm, “you want more coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” She turned around. “Billy, get this middle button, please. I can’t ever reach it.” Billy stood behind her and quickly did as she asked. “Thank you.”

  As Billy got dressed, Margaret sat at her vanity table and put on her makeup. “Honey?” she asked. “Who said, ‘No man is an island’?”

  “You think I don’t know?” Billy grinned.

  “No . . . So, who said it?”

  “John Donne. Sixteenth-century minister.”

  She shot him a quizzical expression. “How do you know that?”

  “My mama used to say it. Why are you thinking about ‘no man is an island’?”

  Margaret brushed some color into her cheeks and said, “Because I think it’s only partly correct.”