Island of Saints (24 page)

Helen was horrified. She was taking this man directly to where Josef was hiding . . . and doing so without resistance or deceit. Schneider had impressed upon her that if she did
not
, he'd take her back to the café and make her watch him kill Danny in front of his father. She believed the man and, therefore, was doing as he ordered.

“Why are you stopping here?” Schneider asked, suddenly suspicious as Helen pulled the car off the road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

“His place—the cabin Josef lives in—is through the woods in that direction about a quarter to a half mile.” Helen pointed. “There's a pathway, but no road.”

Schneider hesitated briefly, but detected no guile in the young woman. “Pull the car down the pathway so that it can't be seen.”

“But the sand—”

“Just do as I say.”

She did. Helen backed the car up and headed it through the brush that bordered the road. As the car slowed, binding in the soft, wet ground, she didn't use the clutch, allowing it to stall, then lose power completely. “Told you,” she said with a bit too much satisfaction in her voice for Schneider's taste. The vehicle remained in sight of the road, which was her intention, and he knew it.

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.