The Keeper's Son

by Homer Hickam

  Josh thought it over. “I’ll get you the fish, Daddy. And I’ll come to the celebration, too. But I don’t know about acting silly. Especially with Captain Potts on the grounds.”

  The Keeper put one of his big, calloused hands on Josh’s shoulder. “Now, I’ve got one more thing to say before I check the kerosene. I’ve decided to put up a gravestone for Jacob.”

  Startled, Josh’s mouth fell open. “Why?”

  Keeper Jack withdrew his hand. “Because it’s been seventeen years and it’s past time. I’ve ordered a stone from Mallory, engraved and everything. When it’s delivered, I’m going to put it next to his mama’s grave and have Preacher come to say a few words and then we’ll both stop looking for Jacob and worrying about him. He’s gone, Josh, and no amount of wondering what happened to him is going to change that. We’re going to mark that he’s gone forever and that will be that.”

  Josh looked steadily at his father, eye to eye. “I’ll not attend a sham.”

  Keeper Jack’s eyes blazed, then softened. “Yes, you will, that’s an order. And you will forgive yourself for Jacob. Hell, everybody else forgave you a long time ago. I never blamed you, for that matter.”

  “Daddy, being blamed is not what bothers me about Jacob. It’s that it still doesn’t make sense that we never found him. Sometimes, I can’t stop thinking about it. Why didn’t that little red boat end up on Miracle Point?”

  Keeper Jack pulled Josh in, held him close for a moment, then released him. “I forget to say my prayers too often, Josh, but when I’m up there on the light and look out and see you go by on your patrol boat, I remember to pray for one thing, that you’ll put this awful thing behind you.”

  Josh didn’t know what to say. Too many things were going through his mind: Jacob’s headstone, getting ready for the war, and Dosie, too. It all ran together.

  Keeper Jack went on to see about his kerosene and Josh went to visit his mother. As always, he found her grave neat and trim. You could tell the Keeper spent some time with it every day. Josh read the words on her tombstone: Trudelle Thompson Thurlow. A Keeper’s Wife and Beloved Mother, 1887–1922. Seeing her family name reminded Josh that he was a cousin of Millie Thompson, the Maudie Jane’s cook. Millie was a good boy. Thinking of that, he said, “They’re all good boys, Mama. But I’m going to have to change them.” He went down on one knee and smoothed the grass that covered her grave. Then, for some reason, he discovered he wanted to tell her about Dosie. “I wish you could make her a necklace, especially from the Rose of Sharon beach glass,” he said. “She would look smart in it.”

  The wind stirred, and the sea oats around the grave waved in its gentle breath, but it was a northeasterly breeze and Josh wasn’t fooled by it. He knew it would soon develop into a goodsome blow that might spell trouble for the smaller freighters skirting too close to Bar Shoals. “I’m sorry I lost Jacob,” he said to his mother, as he always did when he visited her. Then he solemnly patted the grass and went back to the Maudie Jane.

  10

  The blue-gray mist dissolved before the blunt prow of Krebs’s dory as he puttered along, crossing the channel that would take him to a place he’d not seen since he was fourteen years old. He was only vaguely aware of the frothy sea rushing and pitching beneath him. His focus was on the pearly fog that kept wrapping around him, then blowing away. It was as if the mist contained his memories, invisible until he neared them and then becoming transparent as the finest crystal. They were memories of a boy he no longer was, and of a life he no longer knew. Yet, he needed no chart to go where he was going. He could tell the way by feel and smell and sound alone. Above the thump of the tiny outboard, he caught the sound of a bass rumble interspersed with what sounded like a woman sighing, the constant voice of the island, a voice consisting of the surf thrumming on the beach and the higher note of the wind.

  The island appeared suddenly, a beige sand patch with gray stones and swatches of bright green moss pushing from the sea’s lather. This was the place where he’d been raised, but he had no idea why he’d come back. Yet there was no denying that here he was, drawn by an inexplicable urge the moment he’d signed the papers to turn his submarine over to the dockyard superintendent in Brest. When the Chief had promised to look after the refitting, Krebs had thought first to accomplish all that he’d threatened to Max Hodel, to get roaring drunk, to climb on top of whores; but then, he’d packed a small bag and left for the train station. He’d ridden the train to Hamburg and made his way north and east by hitching rides along the byways and back roads until at last he’d reached the headlands of Schaprode on Rügen, the jumping-off point for the island of Nebelsee.

  Krebs was going home and home was Nebelsee. There was no castle in Augsburg, no “von” between his first and last name. His last name was not even Krebs. He didn’t know what it was, knew only that it was the one Father Josef had given him.

  It was early afternoon when he’d rented the tiny boat. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait until morning for the ferry?” the agent at the dock questioned reasonably. “It would be much more comfortable than being out on the open sea in such a small craft.”

  “Don’t worry,” Krebs had replied. “I can find my way.”

  “So you know Nebelsee?”

  “I was raised in the Waisenhaus,” Krebs answered, the first time he’d told the truth about that in decades.

  “Ah. The Dornbusch Schule.”

  “Call it what you will. It is still an orphanage.” The agent had a form. “I will need your name, sir.”

  “Krebs. Otto Krebs.”

  The agent brightened. “The famous U-boat ace!”

  “Today, I am just a sailor on leave.” He had signed the form and pushed off.

  “When will you return the boat, Captain?” the agent called as Krebs sped away.

  “When I’m done with it,” he had answered over his shoulder.

  Krebs turned the little dory westerly to round the southern cape of the island so as to enter the harbor of Fischfang, the only village on the island. The dory was doing well. Krebs had an uncanny ability with all boats, even unworthy ones. He often wondered if a part of his soul was deposited in every boat he’d been aboard. If so, considering all the boats there had been, there couldn’t be much of his soul left. Father Josef wouldn’t like to hear that, he mused. The old priest had taught him everything about sailing. That was one thing they’d always had in common, their love of boats and the sea.

  Fischfang was a fishing village and it appeared many of its boats were out, although a few of them had been pushed up on the beach for winter maintenance. Krebs eased into the harbor and tied up at a pier and looked around for evidence of a harbor master. What appeared to be a guard shack was at the base of the pier but it was deserted. The whole town seemed empty, not even a dog in the street. He leaned back and inhaled the air coming off the sand and the grass. My God, it is distinctive—crisp and tingling, like the scent of the air after a thunderstorm.

  Strapping his small duffel bag on his shoulder, he walked to the town square, got his bearings, then struck out along a sandy road that led, he was fairly confident, to the orphanage. A mile inland, he came to a dense wood and a crossroads. There were no signs. The road had changed during the nineteen years of his absence. He was about to turn around and hike back to town when he heard the gentle ringing of a bell and saw what appeared to be a teenaged boy riding a bicycle along the track. The boy stopped and stared at Krebs, then he dropped his bike and came to attention. “Good day to you, sir!”

  When the boy stayed at rigid attention, Krebs said, “You may be at ease. Are you in the service?”

  “Torpedoman Third Class Harro Stollenberg, sir! Assigned to the Second Flotilla, sir!”

  Krebs could hardly believe that this slip of a youth, barely old enough to shave, if in fact he was old enough to shave, was a U-boat seaman. But then, they were recruiting them young these days. “Well, Seaman Stollenberg, please stand down. I take it you are on leave.
”

  “Yes, sir. I have just completed basic training.”

  “What is your boat?”

  “Not assigned yet, sir. I am to report to Kiel and from there be assigned.”

  Krebs thought, Yes, they will put you aboard a U-boat and send you out half-trained. If you are are lucky, you will go with a good, seasoned skipper and you might survive, at least for a while. If you’re unlucky, you’ll go with a captain not much older than you and you will die very quickly. Krebs looked at the boy and imagined he was as good as dead already.

  The boy was staring at him. “You are Captain Krebs. I know you from the photographs they showed us at the sea school. They told us how you have the sure touch!”

  Krebs waved the comment away. “Do you live here?”

  “I grew up in the Dornbusch Schule.”

  “You’re an orphan, then.”

  “Yes, sir. I came back to say good-bye to the children and, of course, Father Josef.”

  Krebs smiled. “So he’s still with us?”

  “Oh, very much. He says he has too much work to do to die. How do you know Father Josef, sir?”

  “I, too, was a child of the Dornbusch Schule.”

  “You, sir? I thought you were an aristocrat.” Krebs shrugged. “Somebody started that rumor long ago when I was a midshipman. They started it to make fun of me because I was an orphan. I went along with the joke then and I still do. Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t believe everything you hear, about me or anybody else. The U-boat flotillas are filled with bullshitters!”

  “I’ll remember that, sir. Are you headed to the orphanage now?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m a bit lost.”

  “I’d be happy to take you, sir.”

  “A very good idea,” Krebs said. “And you can do one thing more for me.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We’re both on leave so you needn’t be so formal. Your name is Harro, correct? All right, that’s what I will call you. You may drop in the occasional ‘Captain’ to me, just so we don’t break too many regulations, but not so many ‘sirs.’ ”

  “Yes, sir,” Harro said, gulping. “I mean . . . sorry, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Krebs laughed. “They’re going to love you in the U-boats, Harro!”

  The sand track led them past the old lighthouse. It was silent and empty and the Keeper’s House was a charred ruin. Craters around the house made it clear that it had been bombed. “Why would the English bomb this place?” Krebs wondered.

  “Some soldiers were living in the house,” Harro replied, stifling the “sir” that almost came out. “They were studying the weather.”

  Now Krebs understood. It had been a weather station. The English did not like German weather stations even on remote islands. “What about our planes?” he asked. “Did they try to defend the island?”

  Harro shrugged. “No, but every day, one of our planes comes over. It waggles its wings to us and we wave at it.”

  “What direction does it go?”

  Harro pointed eastward and said, “Teufel Island. No one can visit that place. There are rumors of scientists working over there.”

  Krebs looked toward the distant shore. He knew it well, an island of sand and marsh. “What kind of secret installation would be built in such a place?” he wondered aloud.

  “I really don’t know, Captain,” Harro said. “Nobody talks much about it.”

  Krebs walked away from the broken house to follow the sandy path that led to the tall, eight-sided spire.

  Harro followed him. “I wish they hadn’t turned off the light. It was beautiful.”

  “They turned off all the lights, Harro,” Krebs replied. There was no lock on the door to the tower. When he pushed against the latch, it swung open.

  “We can’t go in,” Harro said. “There is a sign that says to keep out.” He pointed at a small hand-painted sign leaning against the lighthouse.

  “And I suppose everyone respects the sign?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Krebs shook his head. Stay poor, but be honest. It was the motto of Nebelsee. “Well, Harro, we’ll try not to steal anything, OK?”

  “Yes, si—Captain.”

  They climbed the iron steps, listening to the echo of their footsteps. At the top, they found the lamp shrouded by a canvas cover and an ancient brass can that still smelled of kerosene. Krebs picked it up and inspected it. “See the lighthouse insignia on its base? No swastika. It’s from the kaiser’s time.”

  Harro took the can reverently. “It is a fine insignia. Are you going to keep the can for a souvenir?”

  Krebs laughed. “No, although I’m tempted. Put it back, Harro. We will be respectful.”

  Harro carefully placed the can precisely where it had been found. “Is it hard out there, Captain?” he suddenly asked. “In the boats?”

  Krebs knew why Harro was asking. Young men always wanted to know if they would measure up in combat. “You will do well,” Krebs answered.

  “I will fight for the fatherland,” Harro replied bravely. “And die, if I must.”

  Krebs smiled benignly. “It would be a crime for you to die so young. What are you, nineteen, twenty?”

  “Nineteen, sir.”

  Nineteen! Krebs thought. What had the U-boats come to, to recruit them so young? Then he thought, Of course. The young don’t really believe they can die. They make perfect cannon fodder in a war which has already ground up so many of the older men.

  They went out on the parapet and looked across the sea. Clouds covered the sky like a thick, gray blanket that turned into light rain as it touched the water. “For a lookout post, it isn’t worth much,” Krebs observed. “This fog would never allow much of a clear view. Only in the summer is it ever clear. My God! I’m starting to remember! How I loved to come up here. If I helped the keeper, he let me watch the ships. I imagined I was on every one that coasted by. I wanted to see the world even then.”

  “And you did, Captain,” Harro said.

  “I’ve seen mostly water,” Krebs replied. “But I have no complaints.”

  A distant bell tolled behind them. “They’re calling us home,” Harro said. “Vespers.”

  Krebs chuckled. “I don’t think I’m up for vespers. I wouldn’t want the chapel to fall in because of my presence.”

  Harro looked nervous but said, “I guess it won’t hurt for me to miss one service.”

  “Brave boy.” Krebs studied him. “How is it you came to the Schule, Harro?”

  “Father Josef got me from an orphanage in Kiel. And you, sir?”

  “I started out in a Hamburg gutter. Probably dropped off by a prostitute. Father Josef plucked me out of an orphanage when I was about six years old. I think I was a bit of a handful for him but he calmed me down by teaching me to sail.”

  “He taught me, too,” Harro said. “I’ve always loved the water. That’s why I joined the navy.”

  “You joined? And no doubt volunteered for the U-boats, too.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Krebs thought again that the boy wouldn’t last long and felt sorry for him.

  When they came off the lighthouse and faced the short trek to the Dornbusch Schule, Krebs began to have second thoughts. What was he trying to accomplish? He’d run away at fourteen, after all. Father Josef wasn’t likely to be pleased to see his ugly face again. “Harro,” he said, “I believe I will go back. It was foolish for me to come here.”

  “But the ferry only runs in the morning.”

  “I have my own boat, a dory.”

  “It will be too dark for you to go across to the mainland tonight in a dory,” Harro said matter-of-factly. “Come stay the night with us. The little ones will love it. You are a hero of our country, after all.”

  “I am not a hero in any way,” Krebs said.

  Harro looked past Krebs and into the sky. “Look there.”

  Krebs looked in the direction of Harro’s point and saw a two-engined aircraft flying straight for the l
ighthouse. “Let’s get some cover!” he said urgently.

  “It’s ours,” Harro replied. “The one I told you about. He flies over nearly every day at this time.”

  Against his better judgment, Krebs stood with the boy and watched the aircraft approach. Harro was waving at it. Just before it swooshed past, it waggled its wings. It was on a flight path that would indeed take it to Teufel Island, but why it would want to go to those barrens, Krebs couldn’t imagine.

  Krebs walked with Harro pushing his bicycle until they reached the orphanage. The structure wasn’t anything special. It had begun its life as a small hotel. When it had gone out of business, Father Josef had converted it and built a small chapel alongside. It was as cheerful as it could be made, painted a bright white with a red-tile roof and red shutters to match. Flower boxes attested to spring color, though now they contained only the gray-green vines of past growth.

  Harro led the way into a cozy room that was part dining area and part kitchen. A fireplace crackled energetically. The whole room seemed suffused with warmth and light. Krebs heard muffled children’s voices and the sound of bare feet running upstairs. The sound of feet on hardwood floors brought back a sudden memory, of a time when it had been his feet on that floor, running with the other boys and girls. He recalled the big room where he’d lived with eleven other boys, and the rows of beds, dazzling white with freshly laundered sheets and snowy pillowcases all lined up like soldiers in ranks. He remembered the meals, always hearty and filling, and the stories Father Josef had told around the fire in the evening. The children of the Dornbusch Schule were lucky, all things considered. Krebs knew now why he had returned. He had never thanked the good priest for raising him in kindness. It was as simple as that.