The Heart Mender: A Story of Second Chances

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “But it’s spelled . . .”

  “W . . . a . . . n . . . yeah, I know. But she didn’t.”

  “But why didn’t someone—your dad . . . anybody—tell her?”

  Wan laughed. “You’da had to know my mama.”

  The back door opened, letting a gust of wind into the café as the Gilberts, led by Danny, hustled in out of the rain. Helen and Wan stood to greet the wet family, placing their empty plates behind the counter in the open window to the kitchen. “Good morning, everybody!” Danny said enthusiastically as he went immediately to Helen, as he did every day, and kissed her hand. “Good morning, beautiful Helen,” he said. “Hello, Wan.”

  “Hey, Danny,” both responded. Helen helped Danny off with his jacket as she greeted Billy and Margaret. She had been apprehensive about their son when she’d first started work at the café. Danny was a large man, and Helen had never been exposed to a person with a mental disability. Once, after observing the fearful expression on Helen’s face as Danny ran toward her, Margaret took the younger woman aside and explained that while her son was physically an adult, mentally he would always exist as a sweet ten-year-old boy.

  From that day forward, Helen accepted Danny as her special friend. While she was bitter about the rest of her life and tended to be unsmiling and short with everyone else, Danny received the best of Helen Mason. Somehow, subconsciously, Helen suspected that Danny was the only person in the world to whom life had been more unfair. She and Danny, Helen decided somewhat defiantly, were kindred spirits.

  As for Danny, he adored Helen. He held the door for her, carried things for her, and was forever drawing pictures and making things for her as gifts. “Have you made the coffee, Helen?” Danny asked sternly as he hung up his jacket. It was a question he asked her every morning, even when she arrived after the Gilbert family.

  “Yes, sir. I have,” Helen said. “Who wants some? Billy? Margaret?”

  Soon, they were all settled around the counter with steaming cups. Danny made toast for everyone, including Wan, who never missed the opportunity to eat more. He consumed twice as much as anyone Helen had ever met, and yet there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his bony frame. “No customers yet, huh?” Billy asked Helen. She shook her head no.

  “Me . . . I’m a customer,” Wan said as he put a spoonful of plum jelly on a piece of toast.

  “Naw,” Billy replied, lighting a cigarette with a match, “you’re a eatin’ machine. You ain’t even human. You know, I’m glad the county reimburses you for eatin’ here . . . couldn’t nobody but the government afford it.”

  Everyone chuckled as Wan pouted a bit, ignoring them and folding the toast, taking half the piece in one bite.

  Billy poured it on. “Yeah, you’re acting sad and everything,” he said, “but by God, that don’t stop you from eatin’. What’sa matter, Wan? Can’t get the whole thing in your mouth at once? I swear, twenty fat people died and came back to life as you!”

  Wan rolled his eyes with a smile and took another bite.

  Billy loved to pick on Wan. He knew the deputy could take the teasing with a grin and secretly considered him a good example for his son. Years before, Billy had been alone in the café’s kitchen one afternoon when Danny had come inside crying, distraught over the names some of the other children had called him. Billy’s heart had been broken, but he knew that it was a reality with which his family—and his son in particular—would have to learn to live. “Folks pick at you for two reasons,” he had told the sobbing child. “First reason is ’cause they like you. Second is that they’re testing you. The way you pass the test is to smile. Then when you pass the test, ever’body’ll like you because of your smile. And if they don’t . . . well, we don’t want them as friends anyway, do we?”

  Billy Gilbert had lived in south Alabama his entire life. He was a smallish, thin man with a mischievous personality most often betrayed by his twinkling eyes. His hair, what was left of it, was still mostly dark, and one could tell at a glance that in his younger days, Billy had been a handsome man. Quick to laugh, he was magnetic and generous with his encouragement. People just flat-out liked Billy Gilbert. That affection, it was supposed, was why they didn’t kill him when he was a young man after he was revealed to have been selling sugar tablets as “comet pills” in 1910.

  In the early part of the twentieth century, when Haley’s Comet made its trek through the night sky, there was a great deal of suspicion and precious little information about the extraordinary event obviously unfolding in the heavens. Billy, sensing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (literally), made Billy Gil’s Comet Pills available as protection from the “poisonous gases contained in a comet’s tail.” The gullible townsfolk of Foley and the surrounding area bought the tiny white tablets by the bottle full, safe at last to venture into their yards at night, free from the deadly effects of the “demon star.”

  When it became known that Billy Gil’s Comet Pills were also available in the grocery store under the name Domino Brand Coffee Sweetener, folks laughed right along with Billy. He was well aware that any other man might’ve been jailed for a stunt like that, but pleased to be a part of the joke, and joining the preacher, mayor, and entire sheriff’s department as victims, no one in Foley, Alabama, ever even asked for his money back.

  Billy and Margaret had been married forty-six years. They were together as man and wife for a decade and a half before Danny was born. It had been the happiest day of their lives until they realized something was wrong with the baby. Retardation, Billy believed at the time, was a fault of the father. He wasn’t sure where he had heard that, but he believed it and sank into the depths of a depression only the guilty can reach. Billy blamed himself. Margaret, however, blamed God.

  Margaret had been attracted to “that crazy Billy Gilbert” even when they were kids. She grew up just over the Florida line, but saw Billy once a month at church in Perdido when the preacher came through. She was twenty when they were married, older than her husband by a year, though in 1896, both were considered old to be newlyweds.

  Margaret was the oldest child in a family with eight children and, expecting a large family of her own, was disappointed and increasingly resentful as her childbearing years slipped by. Finally, after the joy of a perfect pregnancy came the crushing comprehension that their baby—the child they’d begged God for—was mentally retarded.

  Margaret was devastated. So this is the work of God, she had thought angrily. The God I asked into my heart as a ten-year-old girl. The One to whom I have prayed and Mama sang and we all gave our money. This is God’s reward for faithfulness? At that moment, Margaret made a conscious decision to turn her back on everything she had been taught—and believed—about a benevolent God, a heavenly Father who watches and loves and cares.

  It was years later, but amazingly both Margaret and Billy found their way to a life happier and more fulfilled than before. It had taken an understanding of a principle they had been slow to recognize—a principle they now call “the heart mender.”

  Margaret, especially, was eager to share the principle with Helen, but the timing had to be right, she knew. Helen’s bitterness had created a hard shell around her that kept everyone away . . . along with any encouragement or information others might share. She was not often rude or even impolite; she was cool. Margaret told Billy one evening, “You know, I just about can’t tell if that little girl is about to fly into a rage or burst into tears. Most times, she seems on the verge of both.”

  The couple knew about the tragic death of Helen’s husband when she moved into the area to care for her aunt— there are no secrets in small towns. And when the aunt died, too, Margaret insisted that Billy hire her right away. She was young, Margaret argued at the time, had no family, and was being beaten down by life. It was apparent to Billy that Helen reminded his wife of herself and of her own struggles years before. They didn’t need anyone, Billy protested, and with the war on, mo
ney was already tight enough. But Margaret won that battle as she did most of them, and Helen came to work the next day.

  WAN TOOK HIS SECOND PLATE OF THE MORNING TO THE kitchen. Slowly a few customers began to trickle in, shedding their jackets and raincoats. The deputy paused by the stove to thank Billy, then stopped at the counter with Margaret. “Want some coffee to go?” she asked. “It’ll keep you warm ’til the sun comes out . . . supposed to rain for a while, you know.” Wan nodded and held out his personal cup, but Margaret noticed his eyes were on Helen as she took an order at the front table. The older woman poured the steaming black liquid and said softly, “Give her time, Wan.”

  “She seems kind of mean sometimes,” he said, never moving his gaze from the beautiful waitress.

  Margaret chuckled quietly. “Well, that’s all of us now and then, don’t you expect? And . . . well, you know what’s happened. Helen’s been through more than most.”

  The deputy slowly nodded his head, thanked Margaret for the coffee, and left.

  CHAPTER 6

  July 19, 1942

  UP OR DOWN. IT WAS A TRADE-OFF FOR THE MEN OF THE U-166. On the one hand, a sailor might endure the relentless bucking and pounding of the waves on the surface while enjoying the fresh air that came with an open hatch. On the other, he could appreciate the relative calm of undersea navigation, but would most assuredly suffer the headaches caused by the smell of diesel and sewage.

  Occasionally, however, the stars aligned. For three days and nights, the best of both worlds had come together, and the U-166 cruised flat, calm seas. The constant supply of clean air and a steady, even, forward motion had allowed the men a much-needed rest. Moving in an uninterrupted line on a north-northwesterly course, the submarine stalked deeper into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. With all of his officers present as they changed the early-morning watch, Kuhlmann finally revealed their mission.

  “Gentlemen, gather ’round, please.” The commander stood on the forward section of the conning tower as the last colors of sunrise melted away. The boat had not crossed paths with a target of any sort since the sinking of the Gertrude. This did not disappoint or surprise Kuhlmann, for they were not hugging the coastline or prowling shipping lanes as they might normally have done. The U-166 was headed for a specific destination.

  “Fischer . . . Klein . . . Landermann . . .” The commander called each of his officers by name as they circled him closely. The men wanted to hear every word Kuhlmann spoke and knew they would struggle to do so over the chugging of the surface diesels. “. . . Oppel . . . Wille . . . Traun.” The Nazi observer, Schneider, was present as well, but Kuhlmann had failed to acknowledge him. The slight was purposeful and afforded the officers a small degree of smug satisfaction. They didn’t like or trust the man any more than did their leader.

  “You are the finest officers assembled on the greatest, most modern attack vessel that has ever been produced in the history of warfare. Admiral Doenitz, in his wisdom, has seen fit to use us in a way that will bring glory to your families and your homeland. We are taking the fight to the enemy in his own backyard. We will be joining a wolf pack already patrolling the coastline of the northern Gulf of Mexico. There, the U-166 will seek petroleum tankers and merchant freighters bearing east from Texas ports as well as those leaving New Orleans and the Mississippi River. The other U-boats are already experiencing success beyond imagination. The Americans are off-guard and unprepared. Gentlemen . . . Operation Paukenschlag—Drumbeat—has begun.”

  The officers listened to their commander with excitement. They had seen this part of the world only on maps, and the opportunity to spring upon the enemy in a completely unexpected location was a fighting man’s dream come true. Josef, for his part, barely heard the words his commander and friend was speaking. His gaze was fixed on Schneider . . . who stared back at him with a thinly disguised look of contempt. And there was something else too . . . an expression of . . . what? Advantage? Victory? An odd countenance, Josef thought, on a man whose presence is being disregarded. What is he up to?

  Josef wasn’t long in finding out. As the men questioned Kuhlmann about navigation of Gulf routes and fuel-to-distance ratios, Ernst Schneider interrupted. “Commander Kuhlmann.” They all turned to see him remove a book from the folds of his jacket. Holding it forward, he asked, “What is this?” The first warm rays of the morning sun were just streaking above the horizon, but Josef felt a distinct chill run down his spine.

  The book’s cover was red hardboard with black lettering. A circular stain from a carelessly placed water glass dirtied the front of the book to the right of its title. Josef recognized the object in Schneider’s hand, for it was his. And it had been hidden in Kuhlmann’s bunk—a location both Josef and Hans had been certain would be safe from Schneider’s prying.

  Kuhlmann recognized it too, and figuring the best defense was to attack, he spoke immediately and loudly. “Schneider! I will have you in chains for this! That book is mine and was in my stateroom. You dare to enter my private quarters without my permission? Wille, Fischer, arrest this man and confine him to the engine room.”

  One look from Schneider was all it took to stop Wille, the chief quartermaster, and Seaman Second Class Fischer in their tracks. Unsure of themselves, they looked to Kuhlmann again, but before he could urge them on, Schneider spoke, not intimidated in the least. “You will not arrest me, Commander, and you know why. Point one . . . I have also been given a mission on this voyage—by the admiral himself—and as I am the only one able to decipher the enigma code pertaining to that mission, you will stand well clear of me.

  “In addition, I do not believe this book is yours.” He cocked his head curiously and held the book loosely in front of him, turning it and bouncing it in his hand. “This book is typeset in English, and forgive me, but I do not judge your command of the language sufficient to digest a tome of this complexity and magnitude.” Schneider paused dramatically and affected a casual attitude, flipping through the pages as if he had all the time in the world. No one dared breathe as he held the book aloft again. He turned sharply and pointed the book at Josef. “I believe this book is yours.”

  The men unconsciously moved away from Josef, leaving him to stand alone, facing his accuser. “And all this time, Landermann, I thought you were cleaning the commander’s stateroom . . . a cabin boy . . . now it appears you are a traitor as well.” Schneider made a tsk, tsk sound as he shook his head.

  Schneider held the book up for all to see and read its title aloud in German: “Im Westen Nichts Neues.” The men glanced nervously from Schneider to Kuhlmann as the Nazi continued to berate Josef. Moving closer, he said, “You are aware—everyone is aware—that this book is illegal?” Josef did not speak. “Come now, Landermann . . . did you not remember that I can read English as well as you? Did you think I would not recognize Remarque’s classic? But help me here, Landermann . . . if every copy of All Quiet on the Western Front has been burned by specific order of the Führer . . . what is an English translation of it doing in your possession?” Schneider shifted his eyes toward Kuhlmann. “And in your stateroom?”

  The observer let the thought hang in the air for a moment, then stepped to Josef and extended his hand, palm up. “Sub pack, Landermann,” he demanded.

  Josef licked his lips and shot his eyes to Hans Kuhlmann, who nodded slightly. “Present your submariner’s pack now, Landermann!” Schneider said again more forcefully. Josef never removed his gaze from the handsome, arrogant man as he reached behind, into his trouser pocket, and produced the waterproof pack all Kriegsmariners were required to carry.

  The package usually held formal enlistment documents of several types and chained metal identification tags that U-boat crews were required to carry but forbidden to wear. The tags were prohibited because the loose chain could become snagged by running machinery in the tight quarters of a submarine. Not that anyone cared about the danger to the man being snatched off his feet and pulled into a messy death; the concern was
about the harm that loose metal might cause one of the Führer’s engines.

  Schneider snatched the sub pack from Josef and unzipped its waterproof seal. Reaching inside it, he paused, then held it up into the sunlight as if to confirm his initial findings. Disbelief washed across the Nazi observer’s face as he removed a single picture. “Where are your papers, Landermann? Where are your tags?”

  Josef said nothing.

  “Where are your required possessions?” Schneider screamed in Josef’s face.

  “They were lost in battle.” It was a lie, and everyone knew it. Josef was a submariner. There was no battleground per se. He had thrown them away.

  For the moment, Schneider regained his poise. “You do not carry Kriegsmarine or party identification on your person? One or the other is required. Instead you have only a photograph of . . .” Schneider frowned, actually looking at the picture for the first time. “. . . of you, a woman, and a child in a wagon?” The Nazi was about to casually toss the photograph into the churning water below, but a sudden something—a wildness perhaps—in Josef’s eyes stopped him.

  Raising his head as if to think for a moment, he held the photo up by a corner and asked, “What is this? To you, I mean.”

  “It is my identification,” Josef responded. “That is who I am.”

  Not finished, but wisely judging Josef’s state of mind, Schneider placed the photograph back in the sub pack. He took a deep breath as if to close the matter, then narrowed his eyes and said, “I am adding two more quality photographs to your tiny collection.”

  Opening his own sub pack, Schneider removed the first. It was a picture of Josef. “I have been saving this. I knew a time would come when I would be able to present it to you.” It was the photograph of Josef as a cadet. Schneider had obviously rescued it from the trash. All crew pictures were posted in the wardroom and replaced with new ones as the man achieved higher rank. “I will remove the current photograph in the wardroom. It will not be replaced. After all, you have no identification. Therefore, you do not belong on the wardroom wall. You will, however, keep this picture on your person . . . to remind you of your status. You are no longer a mighty under-lieutenant. You are again a cadet.”