Island of Saints (17 page)

“Indeed I was,” Josef confirmed and, seizing upon Helen's questioning expression as permission to continue, did so. “History tells us that a democracy is always temporary in nature. It simply cannot exist as a permanent form of government. My country is a classic example. And as a humble, but sincere student of history, I sorrowfully expect your country to one day follow suit.”

“Oh, come on,” Helen scoffed good-naturedly. To her, it was a statement of such impossibility that it didn't even provoke serious scorn.

Josef shrugged. “This is not my idea, Helen. And it is not a new one. In 1787, Alexander Tyler, a Scottish history professor at the University of Edinburgh, noticed a continuing pattern in the advance and decline of the world's democracies.

“He stated then that a democracy would continue to exist until such time that the voters discover that they can literally vote themselves gifts from the public treasury. From the moment that revelation is made, the majority proceeds to vote for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury. The final result is that every democracy finally collapses due to loose fiscal policy. That collapse is always followed by a dictatorship.

“Tyler charted the ages of the world's greatest civilizations from the beginning of history . . . an average existence of about two hundred years. Every single time, these nations progressed through the following sequence: from bondage to spiritual faith; from spiritual faith to great courage; from courage to liberty; from liberty to abundance; from abundance to complacency; from complacency to apathy; from apathy to dependence; and finally from dependence back into bondage.”

Josef ended and gestured with his hands as if to say, there you are, then added, “Of course, as I said before: God forbid.” Helen simply nodded.

CHAPTER 11

“DO YOU WANT TO WALK ON THE BEACH?”

Josef turned from the window to face Helen, who had asked the question. “May I?” he responded.

“Josef,” she said, “you're not a prisoner. Not that I really know
what
you are.”

It was the second week in August, and Josef was becoming restless. The wounds on his shoulder, front and back, were covered with new, pink skin, but the muscle was still weak. Most of the time, he carried his right arm in a sling, more from weariness than pain. He ventured out of the cottage often while Helen was in town, though never farther than the immediate area around her home. Josef had found an old rake in the tool shed under the house and, as best he could with one good arm, cleaned pine straw and brush from the sandy “yard.”

“If you want, I'll walk with you. We won't see a soul.” Helen pooched out her lips and looked thoughtful. “Still,” she said with a point of her finger, “you can't wear that. Even without the medals, it looks like a uniform . . . the wrong uniform. And if we should happen across someone . . . well, your silver buttons give it away.”

She went to the closet in the bedroom and pulled a green canvas bag from its corner. Josef stood at the bedroom door and saw Helen hesitate before opening it. “Do you need help?” he asked.

Helen, on her knees, merely held out her open palm toward him.
Be quiet? Go away? What does she want me to
do?
Josef wondered. Then he noticed her tears and retreated into the living room where he sat down and waited.

Soon, Helen emerged from the bedroom. With red eyes and a sniffle, she placed a pair of pants and a shirt on Josef's lap. “They were my husband's,” she said. “He didn't wear them much . . . and I'm tired of washing your clothes anyway. There's a whole bag of stuff here. Go through it. Leave his uniform.”

Josef hesitated, then asked, “Are you certain you don't mind?”

“No,” she replied, striking a somewhat defiant pose, “I am
not
certain I don't mind. But do it anyway. My
husband
wouldn't mind.” She shook her head. “That was him . . . Captain Mason . . . always wanting to help. He wouldn't have even been overseas, but he volunteered. Volunteered! Went over to help train British pilots . . .” She shook her head again, a bit more angrily this time. Gesturing to the canvas bag, she indicated her speech was over. “So go through it . . . whatever you need.”

Twenty minutes later, the German sailor and the American widow walked the beach, not exactly together, but at the same time. Not yet truly friends, at least they were no longer enemies. Helen had settled in her mind Josef's “difference in a German and a Nazi” and was convinced that he hated Hitler as much as any American. In addition, she had come to believe that Josef was a good man. She marveled at his calm and was impressed by his intelligence and his wisdom.

Each, however frequently they talked (and after all, there was little else to do), had kept much of himself or herself from the other. Despite being free to express an opinion openly for the first time in years, Josef still kept his innermost feelings to himself. He answered candidly when questioned, but offered little.

Helen, for her part, could not escape the sensations of fear and occasional anger that ruled her life. She still felt somewhat guilty about keeping Josef's presence a secret. And even though she had begun to feel comfortable—and strangely comforted—around Josef, her personal history subconsciously cautioned her that he would soon be gone.

Though neither acknowledged the inability to open those final doors to the other's deepest thoughts, the way they communicated displayed proof that this was so. One might say, “May I ask you a question?” instead of just asking it. Or, “If you don't mind my being honest . . .” with a pause, as if somehow one's honesty might not be welcomed or accepted by the other.

For more than an hour, Helen and Josef walked along the shore to the west. Helen pointed out the place she had found him almost a month before. Having grown tired, Josef asked to sit and rest for a bit, and as they did, a final wall between them came tumbling down.

They sat on a dune, silent for a time, each lost in thought. The smell of salt was thick in the warm breeze. Helen was to Josef's right, several feet away, absently drawing in the sand with her foot and keeping an eye on Josef, who seemed to be watching the horizon.

“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.