WHEN HELEN CAME OUT OF THE COTTAGE, SHE WAS surprised to see Josef standing beside the truck. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “I thought I was supposed to meet you by the road.”
As Helen descended the stairs, Josef gallantly opened the door of the truck for her. “I was up,” he said. “I decided to walk. Last chance for a while. Rain is coming.” He helped her in, shut the door, and ran around to the other side. Though Josef had Wan’s old car, it didn’t run well, and he used it only to transport him to the docks and back. Almost every time he went into town, Josef rode with Helen.
“Really?” Helen asked, leaning out the truck’s open window and scanning the sky for clouds. “It doesn’t look like rain.”
“On its way, I assure you. Drop in temperature . . . wind shift. Bad weather on its way.”
“Gee,” Helen said as she slipped the clutch and gunned the old truck down the driveway, “I hope Santa has his rain jacket!”
The evening before, meeting as usual on the beach, the two had made plans to come into town together for Christmas Eve. Helen had to work only the lunch shift, but wanted to spend some time shopping in Foley before going to work. Shrimping had been slow most of December so Josef had no problem taking a day off—and besides, he was looking forward to spending an entire day with Helen.
They stopped at the café to ask Billy if there was anything he needed from town, and as they parked in front of the small building, Danny came out to say hello. “Merry Christmas, Josef! Merry Christmas, Helen!”
“Merry Christmas to you, Danny,” they said in unison.
“My mama has a present for you, Helen, but I don’t. I have one for Josef. Here,” Danny said as he pulled a small package from his pocket and gave it to Josef. “I made it for you. Open it.”
When the paper was torn away, Josef was speechless. He held the item up for Helen to see. “Oh, Danny,” she gasped. “You made this?” He nodded proudly.
It was an intricate carving, about the size of a man’s finger, of a speckled trout. Its proportion was flawless, the detail incredible. Josef was stunned. “Danny . . . I don’t know what to say. Thank you. It’s beautiful. I didn’t know you could do this.”
“I didn’t know I could do it, either,” Danny said. “It’s my first one. I did it with my daddy’s pocketknife. Are you coming inside? My mama saw you drive up and said if you are going to town, could you get a sack of flour and a tin of lard from the store? She said you would know what kind to get. Are you coming inside?”
“Well, Danny,” Helen said as Josef waved at Margaret through the front window, “I don’t have to come inside now. You’ve taken care of all the details for me. But I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Then she wiggled her eyebrows at Danny and added, “We have some errands to run for Santa Claus!”
“Okay! Okay!” Danny rubbed his hands together excitedly. “I’m gonna tell my daddy!” Before he went back into the café, however, Danny wrapped Josef in a big bear hug. “I love you, Josef. Merry Christmas again. Merry Christmas again to you, too, Helen. I will make a present for you next year.”
As they watched the young man make his way back inside, Helen shook her head in wonder and took the carved trout from Josef, examining it again. “I love you, Josef,” she murmured softly, repeating the words that had come from Danny, surprising them both only moments before. She handed the carving back. Looking carefully at the man before her, Helen asked, “Why does he love you, Josef?”
Josef didn’t know how to answer the question and sat silently, a bit uncomfortable, unsure about that himself. Helen answered for him. “Because you possess a good and true spirit,” she explained. “Danny senses that you are not concerned about what he is . . . only about what he can become. Danny does not process shades of gray. He sees life only in black and white. In a way he could never define, he perceives you to be worthy of his love. I believe that too.”
Josef was still, held prisoner by Helen’s gaze. After her words had been spoken, the silent seconds that followed seemed to last an eternity. Neither moved. Josef wanted to take her in his arms, to hold this woman, to kiss her. Helen thought he might. Instead, the words that came out of his mouth were, “I think I’ll get him a pocketknife.”
Helen’s eyebrows raised. “What?” she said.
“I . . . Ahhh . . . I would like to get Danny a pocketknife. He said he used Billy’s to carve the fish. And it is beautiful, certainly, just like it is, but he should have his own. Knife. He should have his own knife. And I can get one for him.” Josef was babbling and knew it, but he couldn’t find an exit line. Helen found it for him.
“Josef,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “let’s go get one.”
Her touch flustered Josef, and it showed. He looked at Helen as if he had no idea what she was talking about, and she struggled to keep from smiling. “Josef. Let’s go get a knife for Danny.”
Josef blinked. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, let’s do.”
Crosby’s Drugs on Laurel Avenue was decorated with large multicolored lights. Reds, blues, greens—it was the only business in Foley that had been able to obtain these modern bulbs, and the effect was startling. It was as beautiful as anything in New York, everyone agreed. Roy Musso, the pharmacist who wore a Santa hat, added to the atmosphere. Crosby’s Drugs epitomized Christmas to the local people, and the threat of rain or the fact that there had never, ever been the slightest possibility of snow—even though the temperature had dropped all the way to fifty-six degrees—dampened their enthusiasm not one bit.
On the second shelf next to the Little Orphan Annie Official Decoder Rings, there were several pocketknives from which to choose. Josef settled on a dark bone-handled Schrade that had two blades. At sixty cents, it was expensive, but Josef had the money and was determined that Danny should have a knife equal to his obvious talent.
As they waited for the gift to be wrapped, Josef smiled mysteriously and asked, “Would it be possible to separate for a bit? I have some shopping I would like to accomplish on my own, if you don’t mind.”
Helen feigned a display of innocent confusion. “Why can’t I go with you?” she teased. “Aren’t we having fun?”
Josef lifted his chin and looked away to demonstrate the fact that he was unmoved by her plea. “Sorry,” he said. “What did you tell Danny? I am on an errand for Santa Claus!”
Helen laughed, but as she noticed a sudden change in Josef’s expression, her laughter died away. Josef had turned his head toward the drugstore’s big picture window while talking with Helen, but was now staring intently through it at something that had captured his undivided attention. “Josef,” she said, suddenly concerned, “what is it? What’s wrong?” She tried to follow his gaze.
“Who is that man?” he asked. Josef had an uneasy feeling, but could not place the figure huddled inside the cab of a heavily loaded flatbed truck. He was familiar somehow. Too familiar.
“What man?” Helen asked, straining to see. “Where?”
“The black truck with the cargo boxes . . . across the street.”
Helen focused now and saw an old man. He was dirty— she could see that from where she was standing. He wore a baseball cap, had a long gray beard, and apparently was parked, just sitting there, doing nothing. “I know who that is,” Helen said, involuntarily curling her lip. “He’s only been in the café a couple of times, and Billy waits on him. He won’t let any of us do it. Billy can’t stand him.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Kramer. It’s ‘something’ Kramer. I’ve heard Wan and the others talk about him too. They don’t like him at all.”
Josef had not moved. “What does he do?”
Helen shrugged. “Ahhhh . . . fishing? I think?”
“Does he have a boat with a red top?”
“Josef, I don’t know. You’re scaring me,” Helen said. “What is this about? Why do you recognize him?”
Josef exhaled. His mind was already working furiously when he answered. “Because,” he said, “he has a boat with a red top.”
Moving quickly, Josef swept the gift-wrapped package from the counter and took Helen’s arm. “We must leave now,” he said. “Hurry. This man must not see me.”
Walking fast to keep up as they moved toward the door, Helen was frightened. “Josef,” she said, “what’s this about? Who is he to you?”
“Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you later,” he answered.
The truck was parked less than twenty feet from the drugstore’s front door. It would be a simple matter, Josef knew, to cover his face with a hand as if to shield his eyes or straighten his hair and step quickly to the vehicle. They would be away in seconds. Kramer wasn’t even looking in their direction.
Helen was close behind Josef as he ducked his head, threw a hand to his brow, and powered through the door. She bumped him when he stopped. Looking around Josef, Helen could see that he had literally run into a man who was entering the store. The man had come around the corner beside the entrance and simply gotten caught in their stampede.
Helen placed her hand on Josef’s back, preparing to continue on out the door, but Josef didn’t move. Helen pushed gently and maneuvered to the side a bit in an effort to see Josef’s face. No one had said, “Excuse me,” or “I’m sorry.” In fact, neither man had moved at all.
“Josef?” she said hesitantly. But Josef did not respond. He was not being rude or inattentive. In his defense, Josef had never even heard Helen’s voice. Josef’s focus at that moment was narrowed to a pinpoint as his heart hammered in his ears. It was the sound of his life being torn apart, but still, he did not move. He was frozen by the face of the man in front of him . . . the face of Ernst Schneider.
AS THE BLUE CHEVY TRUCK, ALREADY POINTED TOWARD THE south, screeched away in that direction, Schneider ran across the street. “Go,” he said, leaping into the flatbed cab and slamming the door behind him. “Go! Follow them!”
“Calm down,” Kramer said as he made a slow U-turn across the middle of the street. “I saw you over there. I saw them two run. Won’t do ’em no good.”
“What do you mean?” Schneider demanded. “And hurry up! Let’s go!”
“Hey, boy!” Kramer growled as he suddenly lifted his foot from the accelerator, slowing the truck even more. “You don’t talk to me that way. You do . . . we gon’ have problems. I ain’t hurrying up ’cause I know where to find ’em. And I ain’t hurrying up ’cause you ain’t gon’ do nothin’ to ’em with me around. I ain’t gon’ be a part of moppin’ up your messes.”
Ernst Schneider seethed, but he said nothing. He had only two weeks left in the miserable place anyway, and he was too smart by far to be lured into a confrontation with an imbecile like Harris Kramer. In a way, however, Schneider identified with the man. You do not talk to me that way, either, he said silently to the filthy man driving the truck. You are correct. We will have problems.
Schneider planned to kill Kramer anyway before he left. Only two more weeks, he mused. Almost finished. And now this. Schneider shook his head as he saw Josef’s face in his mind’s eye. How could this have happened?
Last July, Schneider’s coded message aboard the U-166 had ordered him ashore. There he was to use a crystal set— a radio—that had already been constructed in the attic of a fish house to contact and direct U-boats toward any merchant ships or troop transports departing Mobile Bay. Further, he was to direct fire on any vessel of any kind moving east or west, into or out of the Mississippi River basin. Transportation ashore, he was informed, would be provided by a man already in place—the owner of the fish house.
Aware that his departure was imminent, Schneider devised a plan that would allow him to embarrass Commander Kuhlmann, enrich himself, and exact the ultimate revenge from the swine Landermann.
That night, as Kramer’s boat had come into view, Schneider put his scheme into motion. Kuhlmann, thinking only that the U-166 was to receive a delivery of some sort, had gone below to retrieve gold from the safe. The possibility that Schneider was leaving had not entered his mind. While the commander was below, Schneider had taken the opportunity to shoot Josef and was waiting casually on deck when Kuhlmann returned.
“Where’s Landermann?” he had asked, upon finding Schneider alone.
The Nazi indicated the red-topped vessel tied by only one line and answered that the cadet, Landermann, had gone on board to unload a specific piece of cargo. After only a short time, Schneider expressed his impatience by wondering aloud about the delay. Declaring his intention to “find out what was taking so long,” he prepared to board Kramer’s vessel. Before he stepped onto the boat, however, he paused as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Give me the gold,” he had suggested to Kuhlmann. “I will settle our finances while I am on board. After all,” he had remarked to the commander, “who trusts a spy? No matter what side he is on.”
Kuhlmann agreed that it was probably prudent not to allow a “spy” aboard the submarine at all and handed the gold over to Schneider. “I will strike a hard bargain for the Führer,” the Nazi had said as he stepped to the rail, “and will return with the gold that is not required.”
Those had been the last words Schneider had spoken to Kuhlmann, who, in accordance with established procedure that required an officer on deck when docked with another vessel, stayed behind.
Schneider disappeared into the boat momentarily, then reappeared as the boat’s engines unexpectedly roared to life. Then, to Kuhlmann’s utter astonishment, Schneider released the line from the red-topped boat and waved. “Landermann and I will be back shortly,” he had shouted.
Commander Kuhlmann, totally taken in by the ruse, had waited, his unease and suspicions building by the hour, until dawn, when he was forced by the submarine’s close proximity to shore to submerge and sail away. He believed that, most likely, something tragic had befallen the Nazi observer and Josef, his friend, but he was never able to fully grasp just what that might have been.
It should have been perfect, Schneider thought as he rode silently in the flatbed truck, second-guessing every move he’d made that night in July. Every single piece of his plan that night had come together. Or so he had assumed. It was disappointing, he admitted to himself, to find that Landermann, in such a minor role, had not even been capable of playing his part. It had been a grand production, but now it was ruined. Schneider grimaced as he thought about Josef. You were supposed to die, fool!
Working to control his fury, Schneider cut his eyes to the side and glanced at Kramer. The man was driving as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The Nazi silently cursed. While he had expected an elite practitioner of espionage as his partner and guide when he came ashore, he had instead been saddled with this buffoon—an obnoxious, lazy, infuriating piece of filth if ever there had been one.
Kramer spoke. “That was the boy you shot on the sub, weren’t it.” His words were phrased as a statement, not as a question. Schneider did not respond. The old man cackled gleefully. “Yeah, I thought so.” He laughed again. “Missed ’im, didn’t you? I thought so that night. You’s too wrapped up in what you’s sayin’ to actually aim! ”
Laughing uproariously and warming to the subject, Kramer continued to needle Schneider, whose level of rage was rising dangerously. “Look here, son . . . you gonna kill a man, you just kill ’im. You take your time with a woman, but you get a man done. You ain’t careful, he’ll bite you back. I done both. I know. Unh-huh . . . man, you get him dead quick.”
Kramer wasn’t even attempting eye contact with Schneider. He had lost himself in a favorite subject and continued to chatter away. “You winged ’im. I’d a told you it wadn’t no full-on hit that night. I saw the boy hanging on one’a my boat tires.” Kramer smiled broadly. “Yessir, coulda plucked ’im right outta the water and finished ’im proper. Would have too. But you . . .” The old man looked over at Schneider, expressing an air of superior intelligence. “Naww! You come on my boat all high and mighty—the Führer this and the Führer that . . . turning your nose up at me? Bossing me around?”
Schneider fumed silently. Was it really necessary to endure this? Wasn’t it enough that he’d lived in the attic of a fish house, eating the garbage this cretin prepared? That for months now, he had been without proper companionship and breathing the foul air of this sick society?
Schneider was about half a beat from back-handing the old man, and Kramer must have sensed it. He said, “You be nice, boy. You be nice to old Harris. You wanna finish what you started? You wanna get that boy? Put ’im down? I can put you on ’im. I know where the girl works.”
Kramer drove past the café and only glanced to see if Helen’s truck was there. It wasn’t. He didn’t want to reveal to Schneider the young woman’s place of employment just yet. Get this psycho back to the fish house, he thought. I’ll tell him then. I’ll be out of it.
Kramer was nothing if not an expert in the art of self-preservation. He harbored no illusions about what would happen to the man Schneider was after . . . or the girl if she didn’t cooperate. Or Schneider himself if he wasn’t careful. Harris Kramer had killed before—four times to be exact— but they were smart killings, all for cash, not done in the heat of the moment.
Kramer was glad Schneider would soon be leaving. It had been too much trouble and not enough money. That’s why he’d done it, of course. For the money. After all, Harris Kramer didn’t like the Germans. In fact, he hated them. Just like he hated everybody else.
By the time the flatbed truck had pulled up in front of the fish house, Kramer had told Schneider where Helen worked and laid out a plan. “Steal a car so you can dump it later,” he said. “Grab the girl. It don’t even matter if they see ya—they don’t know where you come from. You only been in town twice, and you’re leaving soon anyway. So grab the girl and make her take you to the guy.”
Schneider had agreed that it was a workable proposal and determined that it was what he would do. Kramer refused to drive him away from the fish house, but pointed him down the road. Walk, he’d told him. There was a group of houses near Navy Cove. It was no more than a mile, Kramer had said. “Get yourself a car there. Them idiots leave their keys in ’em. Just walk in and take one.”
Schneider set out to do just that. He had walked almost a hundred yards from the fish house when Harris Kramer hailed him at the top of his voice. “Hey, boy!” Schneider turned to look. “Merry Christmas!” he screamed, dissolving into a demented fit of laughter.
CAREENING DOWN HIGHWAY 3, HELEN HAD LISTENED AS JOSEF had filled in the blanks for her. He had told her some time back about Schneider and the events leading up to her having found him washed ashore. Now, unfortunately, Helen had a face to go with the name.
She had insisted Josef leave her at the café. “Billy’s here. I’ll be fine,” she had said. “Just take the truck and go. Leave it at my cottage or in the woods—whatever—but you get to your cabin. It’s hidden. No one knows where it is, and it can’t be reached by car.”
It appeared to both Josef and Helen that they had gotten away—at least from the flatbed truck—and that the immediate danger had passed. They were relieved that there was now time to regroup, to plan, and to consider their next move.
After expressing her remorse to Margaret and Billy for forgetting to buy the supplies they had asked for, Helen nervously went about her work. Margaret had noticed the frantic conversation between Helen and Josef when they had driven up. She had also seen the gravel fly as Josef spun the truck away from the café and continued south. By the time Helen walked through the door, Margaret had already remarked to Billy that “something was up.” After accepting the young woman’s apology and assuring her that she needed to do some final Christmas shopping anyway, Margaret got the keys to their vehicle from Billy and went to Foley herself.
It was not yet lunchtime, and the café dining room was empty. Danny was in and out every five minutes reporting to Billy about the storm clouds, asking when it would rain, and concerned about whether Santa could fly in it if it did. Billy was keeping a keen eye on Helen, who appeared to be on the verge of bolting. Not that she could have gone anywhere had she wanted to. Josef had her truck, and Margaret had theirs.
Billy was in the kitchen and had begun folding dough for the lunch biscuits when Helen cried out. Jerking around, Billy quickly looked through the kitchen’s order window and saw Helen stumble as she backed frantically toward the counter.
Schneider had executed the initial part of his impromptu plan in an orderly manner. He had taken the first car he’d come upon near the group of houses at Navy Cove—a black Ford sedan. Kramer had been correct; the keys were in it. Schneider drove east until he’d come to Highway 3, turned north, and was soon pulling into the parking lot of the café.
Schneider saw the young woman through the front window only seconds before she saw him. He leaped cursing from the car. He’d hoped to be able to take her quietly— maybe show her the pistol hidden in his pocket and compel her to leave without any trouble. Not possible now, he thought. Schneider could see her scrambling backward, bumping past tables in the dining room as he ran to the front door. Do this quickly, Schneider commanded himself as he burst inside.
Danny was behind the register. He stood, confused and frightened by Helen’s reaction to the man who had just exploded through the entrance. Billy was out of the kitchen in an instant and rounded the counter. He, too, saw the man coming for Helen and was moving quickly to head him off. It was Billy’s intention to get between them. “Hang on here!” Billy roared. “What the heck do you—” Billy drew up short when the man shoved a gun in his face.
“Move back, old man,” Schneider snarled, “or die right now.”
Billy’s mouth fell open. He looked at Helen. “Don’t, Billy,” she warned, never taking her eyes off Schneider, who had shifted the pistol into his other hand and was maneuvering around Billy toward her. “Don’t do anything. He wants Josef.”
“Why?” Billy asked her. Then to Schneider, “Who are you?”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Schneider yelled, threatening Billy with the pistol again. Watching the older man closely, the Nazi reached out and grabbed Helen’s arm, his grip causing her to cry out in pain.
From behind Schneider came a voice from someone he had not seen upon entering the café. Danny had tears running down his face, and though he was as scared as he had ever been, the young man was coming to the rescue of his father and his friend. “You let her go,” Danny said, “and you stop scaring my daddy. You are bad! I will hurt you!”
“Danny, no!” Helen and Billy spoke almost as one.
“Go back, Danny,” Billy said. “It’s all right.”
At first, Schneider thought he had been trapped. Hearing the voice behind him, he had almost dropped the gun, but now . . . what was this? Schneider turned. When he saw Danny, his eyes opened wide, he grinned, then laughed out loud. “Don’t you laugh at me,” Danny said, crying harder.
Schneider cocked his head and directed his attention to Billy. Continuing to hold Helen by the arm, he gestured toward Danny with the gun. “Does this thing belong to you?”
Billy’s face darkened. He had never felt so helpless in his life. For all his bluster, Billy was a patient and loving man. There had been people in his life he hadn’t liked—even some he had avoided altogether—but until this moment, Billy had never truly and completely hated another person. In a momentary wisp of realization that swirled through his consciousness, Billy knew that he was looking into the face of evil, and he was acutely aware that had he possessed the means and opportunity to kill this man, he would have done so without hesitation.
“Maybe you did not hear me,” Schneider said. “This thing here . . . does this dummy belong to you?”
“Don’t you dare say that about him,” Helen hissed.
Schneider looked surprised. “What’s this? You have feelings for the dummy?” He leaned toward Danny, who was sobbing quietly, and pointed the gun between his eyes. “I think we will shoot him . . . Watch this.”
“Oh, God, please,” Billy breathed, his knees buckling.
“No! No! No!” Helen screamed, struggling violently.
Schneider managed to hold on to her, but Helen’s hysterics had forced him to lower the gun. Danny, crying again, was looking at Billy and whispering, “Daddy? Daddy?”
Schneider laughed at him again, once more raising the gun. “You are an inferior,” he said disgustedly.
“Stop!” Helen pleaded. Then, convinced Schneider was really about to shoot, she said, “If you do this, I swear, you’ll never find Josef. I’ll never tell you where he is.”
The Nazi stopped and appeared to contemplate her threat. “And if I don’t,” he said, offering Helen a nasty alternative, “if I don’t shoot him, you will take me to Josef?”
Helen thought only for a moment. It was their fault— Josef’s and hers—that Billy and Danny were being threatened in this way. She had to get this madman away from them. There was no other choice. “Yes,” she said.
IT HAD BEGUN TO RAIN. SCHNEIDER HAD FORCED HELEN TO drive, and as she did, she struggled to think of a way out of this nightmare. Or at least a way to somehow warn Josef before he was murdered. Yet, she berated herself, to save her life, she could not produce an idea with greater sophistication than shouting a warning when they got close to Josef’s cabin. To save my life, Helen thought and almost laughed aloud at the irony.
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.