Island of Saints by Andy Andrews

looked in Josef’s eyes. Josef saw concern on his friend’s face. The enigma codes were, supposedly, unbreakable, and if Schneider had been given his own set—as he had asserted—then there was no way to find out what was being transmitted—or received—until the Nazi was ready to tell them.
    This could not be good.
    MARGARET SCRAPED THE GRIDDLE WITH A SPATULA BLADE AND watched Helen through the kitchen’s open window as the young woman cleared the last of the tables from the lunchtime crowd. Actually it wasn’t much of a crowd today, Margaret thought. Among others, Wan had not come in, which was unusual. Neither had the med crew guys from the hospital. Margaret’s imagination quickly spun through the awful possibilities and dismissed any personal concern. In the past, when that particular group was absent, it meant an accident of some kind, but her family, she concluded, was safe. Billy and Danny had just walked out the door, on their way to Mobile for supplies, so it couldn’t have been them.
    Helen backed through the swinging door into the kitchen, a tray of dirty dishes in her hands, and set the whole lot beside the huge sink. “I’ll go ahead and wash these if it’s okay,” Helen said. “There’s no one left out front.”
    â€œFine, thanks,” Margaret responded. “I can keep an eye out from here . . . or at least we’ll hear those elephant bells if someone comes in.”
    Helen grinned. The bells on the café door were the source of a running feud between Billy and Margaret. “Just because you’re deaf as a post,” Margaret would say, “doesn’t mean the rest of us want to hear bells that belong in a church steeple pounding the front door all day long.”
    Billy was somewhat hard of hearing, but the slight disability only manifested itself when he didn’t want to hear what was being said. And so, as far as his wife’s complaining about the bells on the café’s door, she was correct—he was deaf. Harder to ignore, however, were the people who knew about the disagreement, were amused by it, and purposefully banged the bells against the door several times as they entered just to get Billy and Margaret going again.
    As Helen ran the sink full of hot water, she listened to Margaret hum an unrecognizable tune, still leaning into the spatula, cleaning the griddle. It took anyone assigned to that task much longer than it normally would have to complete. Steel wool was virtually unavailable—steel being one of the many items requisitioned for the defense industry.
    Even Billy’s cigarettes, Lucky Strike, now came in a white-and-red box. They looked strange, having been packaged in green for as long as anyone could remember. But the military needed the green pigments for dyes and paints, and everyone contributed what he could. It was certainly patriotic—even marketable—as the American Tobacco Company found out the following year when it unveiled its radio advertisement: “Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War!” Sales spiked 38 percent in the following six weeks.
    â€œWhat time will Danny and Billy be back?” Helen asked.
    â€œProbably about three,” Margaret answered. “When we’re through in the kitchen, you can go if you need to. We’re not exactly overrun with folks screaming for service, so I can hold down the fort ’til then.”
    â€œNo, that’s okay,” Helen said without turning around. “No reason to go home. Nobody there waiting on me.”
    Margaret straightened up and carefully laid the spatula to the side. Helen’s comment was typical of the course steered by most conversations with the young woman. Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and stepped to the sink. She said kindly, “Helen, can I ask you something?”
    Helen scrubbed hard at an area of dried egg yolk on a plate. “Yes, ma’am.”
    â€œAre you