The Heart Mender

by Andy Andrews

  Less than a minute later, he spotted the car, abandoned just off the road. Alabama plates. Baldwin County, he noted. Stolen. Billy’d have known the guy if he was local.

  The vehicle looked as if it had been driven off the road and stuck in the sand on purpose. Not a very good job of hiding it, Wan thought as he looked around cautiously. Some kind of signal? If Helen was driving, yes. Good girl.

  You’re telling me where you are.

  Wan knew the squatter’s cabin Josef was living in, though he had never visited the Englishman there. Even before the deputy had helped Josef get a car for his own use, Wan, who occasionally gave Josef a lift, always met him at the road. Nonetheless, Wan had been to the actual cabin several times before Josef ever arrived in the area. They were official visits—sheriff’s business—for one reason or another, one family or another. Wan knew his way around in these woods.

  Before Deputy Wan Cooper left the squad car, he grabbed up the twelve-gauge Winchester pump. Rarely used, the shotgun’s barrel had been shortened a bit and was held in a clamp under the front seat. The gun’s magazine had been unplugged and therefore held four shells instead of two. The chamber was empty, which it always was until the gun was needed.

  The rain, now whipping through the pines, was a mixed blessing. I can’t hear anything, Wan thought. But then, neither can they. The deputy knew the sounds of the rain and wind would mask his approach. Still, he decided, it was better to make any noise he had to make before he got too close. Working the action on the short-barreled pump, Wan jacked a shell into the chamber.

  He hurried through the brush, having declined to advance down the center of the normal pathway. Wan arrived at the cabin exactly where he had intended—on the side with the window. It was actually just a hole. Burlap kept the mosquitoes out in the summer, but in the winter, except for a make-shift rain gutter that had been tacked over the opening, there was nothing to impede Wan’s view.

  He heard the voices before he was close enough to see inside, but what he heard confused him. They were speaking loudly . . . but what were they saying? Was the rain distorting what he was able to hear? The deputy flattened his back onto the wall next to the cabin’s window. They are talking over the noise of the tin roof, Wan realized. Two men’s voices? Who was in the cabin? Wan mentally took roll. Helen, Josef, the guy that took Helen . . . and some other guy?

  The deputy plainly identified two male voices. It was not that he couldn’t hear them, he quickly figured. He could not understand them. They were speaking in another language . . . and one of them wasn’t tinged with the British accent that had become so recognizable to him. As Wan eased to his right and peered into the opening, his heart sank as it all came together at once.

  There were three people, as he had originally assumed. The other male voice he’d heard was his British friend. Friend? He didn’t sound like the funny guy whom everyone in the area had gotten to know. In fact, he was speaking German. Wan recognized the dialect with its guttural sounds. What the . . . ? Who?

  Wan did not understand whatever the two were saying to each other, but they did not appear to be chums. The one guy . . . he was holding a gun on Josef. Helen, he could see on Josef’s left. He wished he could get her attention . . . or understand what they were saying . . . but, he determined, he’d sort it all out later. Now, the deputy knew, was the time to make his presence known and finish this business.

  Wan had gotten the shotgun up to his shoulder and was about to yell out, “Freeze!” or “Hold it right there!” or any one of the phrases he had practiced in the mirror at home, when the conversation inside the cabin changed. To English. Wan listened with mounting horror as he put more pieces of the strange puzzle in place. Questions flooded his mind. One thing, however, was becoming abundantly clear: Whoever this man was, he was undeniably nuts. And he was about to kill Josef.

  None of the three inside the cabin had any idea that Wan was watching the drama unfold from only ten feet away. The deputy ignored the rainwater cascading down his face and into his eyes while he tried to decide a course of action.

  The man with the gun was a Nazi. That was apparent. If he ain’t one, he’s doing a great impression, Wan noted grimly as the long-winded man, who was taunting Josef, continued to jabber away. And what about Josef? Wan thought again. Who in the world is . . . ? “. . . I will kill her first,” the Nazi said. What?!

  Without warning, the deputy’s time of questioning was over, and his options were reduced to one. He saw the man turn the gun on Helen and was aware of Josef diving in front of her, but Wan had already fired.

  In the split second one sometimes has to make a decision, Wan Cooper made one regarding his specific target that seemed strange to him in retrospect. He had been aware that the Nazi held his pistol in both hands. It occurred to the deputy that a body blast from his shotgun might cause the object of his ire to involuntarily squeeze the trigger of his pistol, shooting Helen in the process. So Wan shot his hands.

  From ten feet away, twelve lead balls of double-aught shot have not yet spread into the wide pattern that makes that particular load so effective. In fact, at ten feet, the lethal spheres are arranged in a pattern that has widened to no more than five inches apart—about the size of a man’s two hands clasped tightly into a fist.

  While the deputy had never been especially proficient with a handgun, he had grown up hunting dove and quail in the fields and along the hedgerows of the south Alabama farms. Shooting a shotgun was all about instinct for Wan. When he shot a flying bird, he did so with both eyes open. Never bothering to squint and aim, the young deputy just pointed and fired. His accuracy, everyone said, was uncanny. He almost always hit what he shot at. And this time was no different.

  It was a sight the deputy had never imagined but would never be able to forget. Schneider’s hands simply disappeared. One second they were there . . . the next, they existed as red mist on the opposite wall.

  After he saw that his target was down, the deputy ran around to the doorway and entered. Having fallen to the floor, Helen had risen to a sitting position. She seemed to be in shock and, though unhurt, did not say anything at first. Josef lay facedown, crying on the wooden floor, certain that Helen was dead. And the Nazi . . . well, Wan never forgot him.

  The man was not dead when Wan entered the cabin. With the stumps that had been left at the end of his arms, he was pushing himself up into a sitting position. Wan approached cautiously, the shotgun carried loosely in his arms. The Nazi did not yell or scream or cry out. In fact, what he did do seemed bizarre . . . He bared his teeth.

  Wan looked at him and blinked. Yes . . . the Nazi was baring his teeth. And there was a low growl coming from the man’s throat. Strange, Wan thought. Very strange. He is acting like a dog. And so, the deputy shot him again.

  Before doing so, he looked over to Helen, who was watching. Wan made a quick twirling motion with his finger that she correctly understood was his instruction for her to look away . . . turn her head. When she had, Wan reached the shotgun toward the dying man with one hand. Fleetingly it occurred to him how many times he had done the same for a dog or a deer that had been hit by a car on the highway. Wan put the tip of the gun barrel on the Nazi’s chest and looked into his eyes. A caring person never hesitated to put a hurting animal out of its misery. Wan’s daddy had taught him that. I’m gonna put you out of mine, Wan thought and pulled the trigger.

  PART

  THREE

  CHAPTER 16

  AT A RED LIGHT, I REACHED OVER INTO THE PASSENGER seat and flipped quickly through my calendar. It had been one day more than exactly five weeks, I saw, since I had uncovered the items under the wax myrtle behind my house.

  The light turned green. I made a right turn onto Highway 59 and headed to Foley. The whole thing—the unearthed objects, the Internet searches, the conversations— was bothering me more than it should have. In effect, I had stopped trying to write at all, causing my editor and business manager to share in my consternation.

>   I simply could not concentrate. Not my greatest attribute under the best of circumstances, I now found myself staring at the computer screen only a few seconds before giving in to the Google button that beckoned me from the top of the page. Kriegsmarine, U-boats, Gulf of Mexico—I ran them again and again in every possible combination and read the same material until I knew it by heart.

  Driving north, I looked at the businesses and billboards and tried to imagine what the area looked like back then. Would it have been possible, I wondered, for a submariner to come ashore and elude capture? Possible, I decided, but not likely. But what if it could have been done? I continued to ask myself. How might it have been accomplished? Only with help, I determined.

  The week before, I had begun to feel as though there were something unseen just beyond my grasp—something maddening—as if there were an answer available, but first I had to articulate a question. Yet I didn’t know what to ask. The feeling had crept up on me as I recalled a comment by one of the old people with whom I had spoken. We were finished with our conversation and were walking to the car when his remark had been thrown my way in passing.

  At least, I thought it had been in passing. Now I was not so sure. In any event, I could no longer think of anything else. I was determined to find the truth. Or insult some very nice people.

  “WELL, HELLO, ANDY! COME ON IN.” SHE GLANCED AROUND me. “Is Polly with you?”

  She doesn’t even know I’m here, I wanted to say. And she wouldn’t have let me come if she had known I didn’t call. “No, ma’am,” I answered. “Not today.”

  We walked straight on into the kitchen. “How was Louisiana?” I asked, which is how we, in the South, ask someone about a trip, as if we cared about the whole place.

  “Oh, fine,” she said. “We had a wonderful time. We stayed with the Wooleys—you know them—and saw all their people.” Another Southern thing. We don’t have families. We have people. She stopped, perhaps a bit confused about why I was there. “I’m sorry . . . were you here to see me? Or did you want—”

  “Both of you. I apologize for dropping in like this . . .” But I did it on purpose, I wanted to add. I didn’t.

  “Oh, don’t think a thing about it. Let me get him, though. He’s in the backyard.”

  Soon she was back in the kitchen. “You want coffee or a Coke?”

  “A Coke would be great,” I answered. “Regular,” I added, anticipating her next question. She nodded. She knew exactly what I meant.

  In Alabama, we drink Coke. It’s all Coke. In Chicago, they drink pop. In New Jersey, it’s soda. But in Alabama, it is Coke.

  “You want a Coke?” one person might ask.

  “Sure,” comes the response.

  Second question: “What kind?”

  Final answer: “Orange.”

  Translation: It’s all Coke. This is how it’s done here.

  “Hey, Andy,” he said, coming through the sliding glass door. “What’s got you out and about?”

  “You know,” I said with a smile, “just doing some running around. Got my hair cut at Bozeman’s, saw Dr. Surek . . . my throat thing still going on . . . and . . . what else . . . oh, I stopped at Patty Cakes Bakery for Polly. Anyway, I was in the area and just wanted to say hello.”

  We all sat down at the table, talked about their trip to Louisiana for a while, our boys, the church, the possibility of an undefeated season for the Crimson Tide . . . Were they nervous? I couldn’t tell.

  Then I said, “Hey, I have something I want you to see.” Holding hands, both were sitting across from me. I removed a manila envelope from the leather writing tablet I always carry and opened it. Slowly, one at a time, I removed the silver buttons I had found under the wax myrtle from the envelope and slowly, one at a time, placed them in a line across the table.

  Without speaking, I took the ring out next. I placed it in front of the buttons, careful to set it upright, straight, and symmetrically in the display I was creating. Next, the Iron Cross was situated beside the ring and the UB badge next to it.

  I must admit that my hands were shaking as I forced myself to move even slower. Neither the old man nor his wife looked at me. They were still holding hands . . . watching mine . . . and made not a sound.

  I put the picture of Hitler and the officers inspecting the sailors above the buttons and the photograph of the Kriegsmarine cadet in front of her. Then I brought out the small photograph—the one of the man, the woman, and the baby in the wagon. For a moment, I held it and watched the old man and old woman in front of me.

  They were frozen, barely breathing.

  Did I really want to do what I was about to do? Was this right? Would it serve a purpose beyond the satisfaction of my own curiosity?

  As gently as I could, I laid the tiny family portrait in front of him and quietly sat back in my chair. For a moment, nothing happened. Both of them were seemingly deep in thought, but calm . . . motionless. Then the old woman haltingly reached across and picked up the family picture with her right hand. She had been holding her husband’s hand with her left, but let go and put that arm around his shoulders.

  At that moment, as close as they were to me physically— emotionally, they were miles away. I can only describe what they did for the next several minutes as a huddle . . . she with her left arm around him and continuing to nestle the family portrait in the palm of her right hand. Holding it close, they whispered to each other—the old woman doing most of the talking—and pointed to several details in the picture. I do not know what they said to each other during this time, for I did not try to hear.

  When they were finished and looked up, both had tears in their eyes. “Mrs. Newman?” I said softly. “When did you bury these things on the island?”

  She took a deep breath. Her lip quivered, but when she spoke, her voice was strong. “I did it one night before the war was over. Folks were getting real worked up about people from other countries . . . they were suspecting everybody and his brother as a spy. Newman spoke with an English accent back then, and, well . . . I didn’t want to take the chance. Some had already had their homes gone through by the authorities, their yards dug up by suspicious locals. I didn’t want to just throw the things in the Gulf . . .” She glanced at her husband. “. . . though he said to.”

  She shrugged. “We were hoping to have children one day. I wanted them to have something of their father’s . . .” She looked at the things on the table. “Right there . . . that’s everything he had. I canned it all up . . . even this picture.” She held up the one of the family and frowned. “Seems crazy now to have buried this one. I mean, what could it have hurt to keep this one? But we were so scared. You can’t imagine . . .” I nodded. She was wrong. In fact, I could only imagine.

  “Anyway, I rowed over one night to that little island you live on now. It was trash land then. They grazed cattle on it. We never thought in a million years anyone would ever live there. As time went on, we tried occasionally to find the spot I had chosen that night, but, you know, storms and all . . . we just never found it.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  “Until now,” she agreed. “How did you know?”

  I paused, trying to get my thoughts in order. I had a thousand questions I wanted to ask, but I knew it was important to answer this one. Indicating Mr. Newman, who had not raised his head, I said to her, “He told me.”

  Still he did not move. But she did. Her mouth dropped open; her eyes were wide. She was as flustered as anyone I’ve ever seen. “What? I don’t . . . What?” She looked back and forth between her husband, who still wasn’t moving, and me, sputtering, “I just don’t understand . . .”

  “Mr. Newman?”

  He looked up. “Call me Josef,” he said.

  “All right.” Then, looking back to Mrs. Newman, I gave her the answer both needed to hear. “Mr. Newman . . . Josef . . . walked me to my car the last time we got together . . . right before you went to Louisiana. Before I got in, he said, ‘Those things all held u
p pretty good, didn’t they? After all those many years sealed in a vegetable can?’”

  Mrs. Newman was confused. “But I don’t—”

  “I never told anyone—anyone—that the things were buried in a can. I only said that they were buried.” I looked over at Josef, slightly stooped now with snow-white hair. “I have an idea that you knew that.”

  She turned to him. “Honey, why did you . . . ?” She turned back to me. “I mean, it’s all right . . . I just want to know why he—”

  “Helen,” he interrupted gently, “I’m an old man. Danny’s gone. We’re alone. I’m not ashamed of the life we’ve built—”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she said quickly, “I never meant to say—”

  “Hush,” he said, covering her hands with his own.

  “Listen to me now . . .” He stopped abruptly, remembering I was there and smiled at me. “I’m sorry to be doing this in front of you . . .”

  I held up my hands. “No,” I said. “I don’t mean to be in the way. Do you want me to leave? We can talk later . . .”

  “No,” Josef said. “Stay. We’re fine.” Mrs. Newman nodded, then focused her attention on the man she had loved for more than fifty years. He said, “Helen Newman, you are the wisest woman I know. You are as beautiful now as the night you beat the daylights out of me on the beach. You have taken some unforgivable beginnings, some unforgivable situations, some unforgivable people . . . and forgiven them all.

  “Together, we have struggled and learned to live life as it should be lived . . . except for one thing . . . one secret we have hidden for more than half a century. I am tired of hiding. You are, too, woman,” he said with a grin. “Night before we left, I heard you on the phone”—he motioned toward me—“telling him about a spy that got shot in the woods near Fort Morgan.” He noted his wife’s embarrassed expression with a laugh and turned to me. “By the way, that’s a story you need to hear.”

  Back to Helen, he said, “Don’t you think people will forgive us? I’m not saying we make an announcement, but I think a few people . . .” He looked at me. “Helen, I want this young man to ask some questions. I want him to find out what you know. There’re a lot of people who need to take an unhappy life and turn it into a great one, like you’ve done.”