Island of Saints (27 page)

“I do too,” Helen was quick to add. “I didn't mean to intimate that he didn't.”

“And it wasn't like anyone was looking for Ernst Schneider.” Josef shook his head as if to rid himself of a nasty memory. “He was a bad one.”

“And nobody ever found out?” Neither spoke. I asked again: “So you don't think anybody ever knew?”

Helen couldn't stand it. She answered, “I think Billy knew. I think Wan told him.”

I looked at Josef, who nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said, “I think so too. I think Wan felt like he
had
to tell him.”

“How so?” I asked.

“After we buried Schneider—that very day—Wan went and arrested Harris Kramer. He found the radio Schneider had been using up in Kramer's attic and pinned it on Kramer. He'd been trying to get Kramer for a long time anyway. And he
was
guilty . . . Wan just got him for something else.”

I shook my head in amazement.

“Anyway, when Wan took old Kramer in, Billy put two and two together—connecting one German spy with another—and was about to make a big stink about it—you know, get the posse, let's go find this other one—but nobody else knew there
was
another one . . . much less that he was already dead. So Wan told Billy what happened in order to keep him quiet.” He paused, then added, “Kramer yelled bloody murder about another Nazi ashore, but everybody figured he was trying to save his own skin. Nobody believed him.”

“And Wan never said anything about you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nope, never did. Probably as much out of respect for Helen as anything. He'd heard me through the window that day, telling Schneider that I loved her . . . I don't know. Maybe that was it. He didn't take his eye off me for a long time, though. He loved Helen too.”

“Oh, Josef . . . ,” Helen scoffed.

“It's true. You know it.”

“Well, I'm just glad Shirley came along for Wan.”

“Who's Shirley?” I asked. My mind was swimming.

“Shirley was a local girl,” Helen said. “From Robertsdale anyway. She and Wan were married before we were. Nineteen forty-six, I think.”

“Sounds right,” Josef agreed.

“Is Wan still alive?” I asked.

“No,” Josef said. “Wan got cancer. Passed away about fifteen years ago.”

“Shirley's still alive, though. She's not a Cooper anymore.” Helen smiled mischievously. “She's a Warren now.” She waited for what she'd just said to sink in.

It did. “Oh, come on!” I exclaimed, as Josef chuckled. “Seriously?” I said. “Shirley Warren that works at the state park?
That
Shirley Warren?”

“That's the one.” Helen grinned.

I couldn't stand it. I had to ask, “Does she know that you—”

“Nooo. Nooo,” they said. “Wan never told her.”

I was curious about Josef's friends and family left in Germany. “Did they ever know you made it off the sub?”

He shrugged. “No family left. And as for friends, there was Hans Kuhlmann, of course, but everyone else in Germany was so displaced by the fighting that when it was all over, people just assumed that the friends they no longer saw—were dead.”

“What about Kuhlmann . . . your sub commander? Did you ever see him again? Or communicate to him in some way that you were safe . . . alive?”

Josef spoke softly to Helen, then turned to me. As he continued to talk, she slipped from the table and out of the room. “I never saw Hans again. Neither did I hear anything about him for years.”

Helen walked back into the room and handed me a copied article from a newspaper. It was an Associated Press article, carried by the
Birmingham News,
dated June 9, 2001. The headline read: “Remains of Sunken WWII German Sub Found in Gulf.” I glanced at Josef, who remarked, “Hans never made it home.”

Reading just the first two paragraphs gave me chills:

New Orleans. A sunken World War II submarine
has been discovered 5,000 feet deep in the Gulf
of Mexico, rerouting a planned oil company pipeline
and rewriting a bit of wartime history.

BP and Shell Oil Company, which had been surveying
the Gulf floor for a joint pipeline project,
announced the discovery Friday of the U-166, which
was sunk in 1942 after it sank an American ship.

“She was sunk by depth charges dropped from a navy patrol boat,” Josef said. “The U-166 attacked and sank the
Robert E. Lee,
then was
herself
attacked and destroyed from above.”

“Tell him about Gertrude,” Helen prompted.

“Gertrude?”

“Gertrude was Hans's wife,” Josef said. “Beautiful girl. I was in their wedding. I talked to her as recently as last year.”

“She's still alive?” I asked incredulously.

“She was last year,” Josef said. “After the sub was found, I made an effort to find her, and did. She is still in Cologne . . . invests quite heavily in the stock market. All blue chip American companies, she says.” He laughed as I shook my head in wonder.

At one point, I asked Josef what he had meant when we first started talking and he made a comment about what his wife could do. “You said that Mrs. Newman could help people take an unhappy life and turn it into a great one.”

“Helen understands and harnesses the principle of forgiveness in an unbelievable way.”

“Can you explain it?” I asked.

Josef pointed to his wife and smiled. “Let her explain it.”

An expectant smile on my face, I turned to Helen.

“Very simple,” she said. “It wasn't so simple for me a million years ago, but time and experience have given me an honest grasp on the concept, I truly believe.”

“Shoot.”

“All right . . .” She paused an instant, collecting her thoughts, then laid it out in a way I'll never forget. “Remember this,” she said. “Forgiveness allows you to lead your own life and choose a joyful existence rather than giving it over to the control of others less qualified.

“For years, I was reluctant to forgive because I did not understand the difference between trust and forgiveness. Forgiveness is about letting go of the past. Trust has to do with future behavior.

“I believe,” Helen said with a beautiful smile on her face, “that Josef and I are an example of the incredible power of forgiveness.”

“I believe it too,” I responded. “How do we harness this power?”

“By
deciding
to harness it,” she said simply. “So many people allow their emotions to dictate their decisions rather than the other way around. When we
decide
to forgive, our lives begin anew.”

I remained silent in hopes that she would continue. She did. And in a direction that surprised me. “Have you heard of the new method being touted with which to deal with our bitterness and resentment? ‘Anger management,' I believe it is called?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have. Companies, professional sports teams . . . everyone is using it. It's a big deal.”

“It's a big crock.”

My eyebrows rose about an inch. “Excuse me?”

She smiled calmly. “You heard me. I said, anger management is a crock. Ridiculous. A waste of time.”

Obviously I was curious, but just as obviously I did not understand. “Go ahead,” I prompted.

“Imagine this,” she began. “Suppose you say, ‘I have this deep-seated bitterness . . . this resentment, perpetual anger . . . this consuming rage that exists inside me. It causes me to do things that are ruining my reputation, destroying my marriage, ending effective communication with my children . . . This anger might result in the loss of my job or even a prison sentence . . . But still,' you say, ‘it's
my
anger. It's part of who I am. So I'll just keep it here inside me and learn how to
manage
it!'”

I laughed as she asked, “Andy? How crazy is that? Anger management? Forget anger management. It doesn't work. We need anger resolution. We don't need to
deal
with our anger . . . we need to get
rid
of it!”

“Forgiveness?”

“Exactly. How many times have you lay awake at night imagining the aggravation someone put you through during the day . . . thinking about what he said . . . what you should have said . . . what you'll say if you see him again?”

I chuckled and admitted that, yes, I had done that more than a few times.

“And, of course, that person is sleeping peacefully without any idea that
you
are awake, thinking about
him!
So, at that point, whose life is being ruined, consumed, and wasted?”

Helen looked at Josef and said, “It's something we've discovered together . . . this secret.”

“What secret?”

“The special secret of true forgiveness—anger resolution. Here it is: For you to forgive another person, it is not required that he
ask
for your forgiveness.”

My gaze narrowed.

She said, “For you to forgive another person, it is not required that he
deserves
your forgiveness.”

Helen paused, looking me right in the eye, and added, “For you to forgive another person, it is not even required that he is aware he has been forgiven.”

“So you're saying . . .”

“What I am saying,” she interrupted, “is that there is not a shred of evidence from experts or books—including the Bible—that demands a person ask for, deserve, or be cognizant of the process before
you
can forgive
him.
Forgiveness, it turns out, is a gift that means more to the giver than it does to the receiver.”

I was amazed at the wisdom of the beautiful old woman, but she wasn't finished.

“Incidentally,” she said, “it is important that we forgive ourselves. Most of us over thirty years of age have had plenty of time to get good and mad about the things we've done or haven't done. We made promises that we didn't keep, or we had intentions that were never fulfilled. We set goals we didn't reach, and now, we've disappointed ourselves so many times that somehow—sometimes without realizing it—we've decided that we just won't make any more promises, have any good intentions, or set any goals. Our failures have paralyzed us.

“The answer for you and me is the same as it is when we deal with someone
else
who has offended us . . . forgive the offender and move on.” She must have noticed my expression. Helen smiled wisely and asked, “Have you ever felt this way?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I answered. “I just never knew what to do about it.”

“You tried to
manage
your disappointment in yourself?”

“I guess I did.”

“Well, don't manage it;
resolve
it.” She reached across the table and took my hand. “Andy,” she said. “I am not mad at you. Josef is not mad at you.
God
is not mad at you. Who are
you
to hold a grudge? Forgive yourself and move on.”

IT WAS DARK WHEN I FINALLY LEFT WITH A PROMISE TO RETURN. I was exhausted, my mind still reeling from what I had discovered in the lives of these two extraordinary people. That day was a conclusion of sorts—the unveiling of a mystery whose answers for so long had remained just out of reach. But it was also a beginning. And I am encouraged by what I find and what I feel when I put the principle of forgiveness into practice.

Josef had already said good-bye when Helen walked me to the door. She hugged me and told me how much she had enjoyed the day. “It is a bit strange to talk about that time,” she said thoughtfully, “. . . after all these years.”

I stopped on the front porch. Now that Josef wasn't around, there was something else on her mind . . . I could feel it. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Just . . . tired, I suppose.” I waited. “Andy?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Are you planning to write about this? Our lives, I mean?”

So
that
was it. “Well,” I answered carefully, “I won't if you don't want me to.”

She thought a moment. “Do you think our story could help? By that, I mean, could we make a difference somehow?”

“Mrs. Newman,” I said earnestly, “I believe that there are people who struggle every day with the challenges you and Josef have conquered. And frankly I am one of them. Yes, I think your story will help. Who benefits when we come to understand and harness the power of forgiveness? Children, marriages, careers, nations . . . the list goes on and on.”

“I don't want Josef to be hurt. He's lived in America for so long now. What if there are those who don't understand?” Then she brightened. “I have an idea . . . if you write about this, can you change the names?”

“Sure.” I nodded. “That won't be any problem.”

Helen sighed. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't mean to act scared. I'm an old woman now, and I just get like this sometimes.” She hugged me again and wiped what I hoped was a happy tear from her cheek.