Island of Saints

by Andy Andrews

  Though restricted somewhat by the close confines of the automobile’s interior, Schneider reached across and slapped Helen as hard as he could. “That will be your only warning,” he said calmly and rather proud of his emotional control, considering what she’d just done. “Get out of the car.”

  Helen was stunned—literally and figuratively—and truly frightened of this man. As she staggered from the car, Helen wiped at her nose and saw that she was bleeding. With every passing moment, she was becoming less confident that she could somehow outsmart Schneider. It was obvious that she could not hope to overpower him.

  “This way?” Schneider asked with a gesture as he drew the gun from his jacket. Helen nodded and watched as the Nazi checked the semiautomatic’s chamber to make certain it was ready to fire. Helen had no way of knowing, but it was the same pistol—the Walther PPK—Schneider had used on Josef the first time. Now, Schneider thought, absently brushing raindrops from the weapon that reappeared immediately, to finish the job.

  Before Schneider started toward the cabin, he had a word of warning for Helen. “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “You will walk directly to the cabin that you have indicated is less than a half mile away. You will do so slowly and in silence. You will inform me quietly when we are within two hundred yards of Landermann’s location. You will not attempt to call out or signal Landermann in any way until I order you to do so.”

  As he spoke to the wet, bleeding young woman, Schneider probed Helen’s eyes with his own. Searching for any sign of treachery, he saw none, but he was determined that, this time, he would leave nothing to chance. “To be fair, I must inform you . . . should you ignore these instructions . . . should you defy me in any way . . . I will kill you immediately. And not with the swift grace of a bullet in the head. I will break your neck.” Then, smiling as if he had finished placing an order at a fine restaurant, he said, “Excellent. Do we understand each other?” The smile vanished. “Move.”

  Helen picked her way through the scrub pines and palmettos. Still attempting to give Josef some warning that they were coming, she had chosen to ignore the small pathway Josef had worn from the cabin to the road. Get off it just a bit, she told herself. This maniac won’t notice, and maybe Josef will hear us if we push through this brush.

  But Josef did not hear them approach. Coming in sheets now, the rain was absent the thunder and lightning that often accompanied even winter storms on the Gulf coast, but pushed by a strong north wind, the heavy drops pounding the palmetto fronds provided all the cover for which Schneider could have hoped.

  Helen stopped and indicated to the Nazi that their location was now within shouting distance of the cabin. In fact, she pointed out to him, there it was, through the trees. With smoke pouring from the makeshift chimney—actually a piece of metal pipe that had been fitted through the cabin’s patchwork roof—the structure was easily visible. Helen had taken Schneider as close as she dared before stopping, again in hopes that Josef would be warned, but it had not worked.

  As she waited for Schneider to make his next move—he was examining the situation warily—Helen was aware of an aura of sadness enveloping her like a shroud. This man had outmaneuvered or overpowered them at almost every turn. She began to cry and was conscious of her tears as they silently mingled with the raindrops on her face and fell to the ground, evanescing into nothingness. An apt metaphor for the happiness in my life, Helen mused grimly. An apt metaphor for my life. Always fading into nothingness. And now, for the last time . . .

  Suddenly Helen knew what she would do. A final statement of sorts. She would not live through it, of course, but maybe she could save Josef. She would run. Right now, she would run! Schneider would shoot her. Of that, Helen was certain, but the sound of the shot would warn Josef and give him the time and opportunity to slip away. She took a deep breath, ready to break and run. Go! she commanded herself, but inconceivably she was thwarted again before she could move.

  Schneider ran his hand roughly up the back of Helen’s neck into her wet hair. His fingers spread wide apart, he grabbed as much of it as he could, then gave his hand a full twist. The pain was excruciating, but the humiliation was complete. He had done it again. The Nazi had anticipated her every effort and blocked any attempt to help, to warn, to escape, even to die.

  With the pistol in one hand and Helen, quite literally, in the other, Schneider advanced on the cabin. “Mr. Landermann!” he called out weirdly. “Come out and play, Mr. Landermann! Come see what I have for you!”

  Helen kicked at him and struggled. She was mad and hurting and panicked by this man who was clearly insane, but she could not free herself from his grip. Irritated by her violent movement, Schneider merely shook Helen like a rat and continued walking.

  “Landermann! Mr. Landermann!” Schneider was singing Josef’s name now. Helen was about to pass out . . . when he halted.

  Josef had been inside the cabin—a structure with a roof of mostly tin—and because of the rain beating down had not heard Schneider wailing his name until he was fairly close. He had known who it was. With only one entrance—not counting a window that was too small to even wiggle through—Josef saw no chance of subterfuge or any kind of a sneak attack. Choosing what he saw as his only option, Josef poured out of the cabin ready to fight. What he saw when he got outside, however, stopped him in his tracks.

  The sight of Helen—bleeding, wet, and being brutally mistreated—drained every ounce of aggression from Josef. He had seen instantly that Schneider held a gun to her head and therefore, acquiesced immediately. “Was soll ich tun?” Josef asked. What do you want me to do?

  “Ahhh . . .” Schneider showed surprise and responded in German, “In der sprache des Vaterlands. Zuruck. Zuruck in die hutte.” In the tongue of the Fatherland, I see. Back up. Back into the shack.

  Josef did as he asked. Schneider advanced with Helen still in his grip. When they entered the cabin, the Nazi sent Josef to the other side of the room and carefully closed the door behind him. “Was jetzt?” Josef asked sharply. What now? He continued to speak in German, thinking that maybe, if Helen did not understand whatever Schneider might say about why he was here or his whereabouts, perhaps she would be spared.

  Schneider was about to kill him. Of that, he had no doubt whatsoever. The only thing that kept Josef from rushing the Nazi was Helen. He would rather Schneider coolly cut him down than risk enraging the man and have him shoot Helen out of spite. Schneider threw Helen toward Josef, who caught her and put his arms around her.

  Schneider pointed the gun at Josef, who gently moved Helen away. “I have always hated you, Landermann,” the Nazi said. He spoke loudly, making himself heard above the sound of the rain upon the roof. Brightening, he added, “But you know that, don’t you? I believe it was the theme—if not the exact words—of my address to you our last evening aboard the U-166.”

  Helen knew Josef was being threatened, but was confused by the German. She didn’t understand a word. “What is he saying?” she asked Josef. “Why are you—” Josef put out a hand to quiet her.

  Schneider continued, “Here is a very curious thing, Landermann. You are now about to be shot by the same man for a second reason.” He grinned broadly. “The first time, to be honest, I shot you only because I wanted to. Now, however, I must. I think you will agree, that does take some of the fun out of it . . . turns a . . . oh, how can I explain this? . . . It turns a recreational killing into more of a business event, a duty.” Schneider made a show of flicking the safety off the Walther. “So let’s get this over with, shall we?” He smiled and gestured toward Helen with his free hand. “I should like to get rid of you in order to have some time alone with her before she dies.”

  An expression of horror clouded Josef’s face, and Schneider laughed at him. Josef knew nothing else to do at that point, but beg. It was his last hope. He would beg for Helen’s life. “Ernst, please . . .”

  Schneider’s eyebrows lifted. “Ernst, is it now?” he said. “My, my . . . Josef
. . . what?”

  “Sir, please . . . I am begging you . . . please do not harm this woman.”

  Schneider shook the pistol loosely at Josef. “Wait, wait,” he said as if he were impatient, which, of course, he was not. Actually Schneider was enjoying himself immensely. “You need to say that part again . . . that last thing, about begging . . . and ‘please do not harm this woman,’ but say it in English, Josef. I think she would like to hear this.”

  Josef repeated himself. “Please . . . I am begging you . . .”

  “You said, ‘Sir . . . please . . .’ Go back to the beginning.”

  Josef’s head was swimming. Schneider was laughing at him, taunting. Still, if he could persuade him to spare Helen, well, Josef would do anything. “Sir, please, I am begging you. Please do not harm this woman.”

  “Excellent!” Schneider said to Josef. Addressing Helen, he asked, “Wasn’t that beautiful?” Back to Josef. “I must have a reason. So, give me a reason. Why should I spare her?” The Nazi spread his feet apart and placed both hands on the pistol. Aiming it more threateningly at Josef, he said, “Tell me quickly.”

  Josef spoke as calmly as he could, “Because I am in love with her.”

  Schneider’s mouth opened in exaggerated surprise, and he lowered the gun. “Really? That is absolutely wonderful! You are in love with her. Oh, my. That settles it then. For you, Josef, my friend . . . I will kill her first!”

  Schneider did not wait for Josef’s reaction. He merely raised the pistol and aimed carefully at Helen, who was standing only six feet away. To Josef, it seemed as if everything were slowing down. He registered the evil grin on Schneider’s face, saw Helen flinch as the Nazi’s finger tightened on the trigger, and gathered himself desperately to leap in front of Helen, the woman he loved.

  But he was too late. Already in the air, Josef closed his eyes in anguish as the roar of the shot filled the tiny cabin. He fell to the floor, face-first, and lay there screaming his grief and rage, waiting for—wanting—the bullet that would next be his.

  CHAPTER 15

  JOSEF FELT THE GUN TOUCH THE BACK OF HIS HEAD AND stiffened. Go ahead, he thought. Do it.

  “Get up, Josef.”

  He turned and saw Helen. At first, he couldn’t move, so close was he to passing out. Then Josef crawled to her, vaguely aware that the gun was aimed at him now . . . and tracking every move he made. But at this moment, he didn’t care. Not at all. “Helen. Helen,” Josef said again and again as he took her hand in both of his, kissed it, and wept uncontrollably. “Oh, my God! I don’t believe it.”

  “Josef. Get up now.”

  Josef stopped crying and steeled himself for what was to come. He breathed deeply in order to control his sobs, kissed Helen’s hand a final time, and stood.

  The gun was in his face. Josef looked into the barrel and closed his eyes. In a way, he had always known this would happen. It was over.

  “Talk quick. Who are you?”

  “I can explain everything.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Wan said. “But at the moment, Helen, I ain’t talking to you. I’m talking to him.” Never taking his shotgun from his shoulder, the deputy said, “One more time, Josef . . . make that one last time . . . who are you?”

  And so Josef laid out the story from the beginning. He told Wan how he’d been surprised and shot that night on the submarine, how he had been nursed back to health by Helen, and how he had decided to stay in America. Josef was completely honest. He left nothing out.

  With Helen to prompt him, he gave Wan every piece of information he could remember about Ernst Schneider, from their early confrontations at Oxford to this very moment, allowing the deputy to come to his own conclusions about how the Nazi had ended up here, on the floor of a squatter’s cabin in Alabama, ripped to bloody shreds by the double-aught buckshot Wan had fired from his Winchester pump.

  BILLY’S CAFÉ HAD BEEN ONE OF THE FIRST LOCATIONS TO INSTALL a telephone. Ward Snook, who had come to the Gulf coast from Ohio in 1908, maintained two lines known as Gulf Telephone Company. One ran from Foley to the state park headquarters the governor had established in Gulf Shores; the other was a party line serving eighteen customers, of which the Hungry Mullet Café was one.

  The telephone itself was an eyesore. It was a big, ugly wooden box hanging on the wall with a mouthpiece and a hand crank by which you reached an operator, who would then connect your call. In theory anyway. Mary Nell Brindley, lead operator, seemed most nights to be in the bathroom as much as she was on the switchboard. Sometimes a caller would reach her . . . sometimes not. Even if you did, Margaret noted on more than one occasion, like as not, there was already someone on the line.

  Billy had not particularly wanted the telephone, but Ward Snook was a frequent patron of the café and had always been nice to Danny, so Billy had it put in as soon as it had become available. After John Lewis, who owned the Ford dealership in Foley, Billy had been the second businessman to participate in the party line. “Always available in an emergency,” Billy said to someone or another almost every day. After all, many people had never seen a telephone “in person,” and it was an obvious topic of conversation. And always available in an emergency. Always . . . except today.

  As soon as Schneider left the café with Helen in tow, Billy ran to the telephone. He didn’t even pause to calm Danny, who was frantic—frightened out of his wits and on the brink of hysteria because Helen had been taken. Billy cranked the telephone furiously over and over again, finally almost tearing it off the wall when he hit it with his fist. “Dead as a hammer!” he yelled to no one in particular, but then, to Danny, said, “Come on, Son. We got to go.”

  Billy didn’t have any idea about what to do except try to hitch a ride to Foley and the sheriff’s department. He didn’t have his truck, the telephone didn’t work, no one else was there . . . Billy and Danny half ran, half walked up Highway 3 in the pouring rain for several minutes, but saw no one, which was not unusual at all for that time of day on that stretch of Highway 3.

  Then, early for lunch, also not unusual, Wan appeared, headed south right toward them. Billy and Danny flagged the deputy down and piled into the squad car, telling their tale as fast as they could and urging him to use all the speed he had. Wan dropped them back at the café, but in the two minutes Billy and Danny spent with Wan, they told him everything he needed to know. Only seconds later, Wan was dashing toward the beach, lights flashing, siren wailing.

  Helen’s cottage first, Wan thought, mustering all his senses to attention. He had to think this situation through as clearly as he could and, at the same time, avoid wrecking the squad car as the rain pelted his windshield and threatened to spin the speeding vehicle into a ditch. I don’t think they’ll be there, but I can check quickly. If I miss ’em and have to go back . . . Wan did not want to consider the consequences. Well . . . I just can’t miss ’em.

  The deputy was trying to remember everything Billy said. The older man was in shock, and Danny appeared well beyond that. Billy said the guy had some kind of an accent. Midwest, he thought maybe? Somewhere up north? And he wanted Josef. That made no sense. For what? Wan threw possibilities around in his mind for a bit, but got no closer to an answer. You want a poor British guy bad enough to come in a place waving a gun around? Why? What for? Not that it really mattered to Wan. The way he saw it, only two things were important about this call. One, the guy obviously had a gun. Two, he had Helen.

  Before he made it to the entrance of Helen’s driveway, Wan recalled that Billy said they were in a black Ford. “Sedan?” the deputy asked.

  “Yes,” Billy answered. That saved him some time, Wan knew. No sedan was ever making it down Helen’s driveway. Not through that sand. Which meant that if this guy—whoever he was—had Helen at her cottage, the car would be visible from the road.

  It wasn’t. Wan hit the gas and sped on by.

  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.