Island of Saints (6 page)

Kuhlmann furrowed his brow. “Of course,” he replied and, holding up a finger, added, “but not a word. Remember, you are not supposed to know.”

Indeed he was not. The mission of the U-166, including its destination, was a secret to be held only by the submarine's commander and its official, onboard Nazi Party observer, a man named Ernst Schneider. But there was another secret on this submarine, one that, had the German High Command known, would have meant certain redeployment, perhaps even discipline for Kuhlmann and Landermann. The commander and his under-lieutenant had been best friends for years.

It was a situation never tolerated by the Nazi military machine, whose entire structure was based on loyalty to the Führer and mistrust of everyone else. It was dangerous to the well-being of the High Command for two men to trust each other. Before long, it was assumed, these men would begin to confide in each other and question orders—maybe even the philosophy behind those orders.

Control was ensured by means of informants carefully placed at the grassroots level throughout the military. For all appearances, they were ordinary soldiers or sailors and existed in addition to official informers—the Nazi Party observers who were placed on each U-boat and ship. These men were specifically charged to ferret out troops disloyal to the party ideal. It quickly became apparent to the High Command that it was not even necessary to place these informers with every company as long as the fighting men did not know each other well. The threat of who
might
be an informer was enough.

Josef Bartels Landermann was twenty-six. Two years younger than Kuhlmann, he was also from Cologne. The two men had been fast friends since before they were teenagers. They had grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to the same schools, and been in each other's weddings. It was only as adults that their paths diverged.

While Hans Kuhlmann intended the military as a career from the time he left high school, Josef Landermann continued his formal education on full scholarship to Oxford, in England. Intending to become a teacher, he was a student of world history, but had a gift for languages that left his professors dumbfounded. His ear for sound and nuance made Josef a popular student, for he was able to mimic any voice, any inflection, almost without exception.

Having heard a particular professor's stiff British accent every day for some time, Josef once stood up before the man arrived, walked to his desk, and impersonated him perfectly for a full minute, including the man's mannerisms and walk. Moments later, after Josef's impromptu performance had ended, the professor himself entered the classroom and began his usual routine . . . only this time to uproarious laughter.

Returning from Oxford, Josef married Tatiana, his high school sweetheart, and a year later, they were blessed with a child. A daughter, they named her Rosa, after Josef's mother, who along with his father had died while Josef was in college. He doted on the child and his wife, buying them every extravagance a teacher could afford. His life was perfect.

But the war changed everything. Josef had been teaching for two years when he was called up for military duty. Tatiana cried endlessly. Reports had been filtering in for some time about the numbers of men who were giving their lives in service of the Führer, and Tatiana was convinced that Josef would never return to them.

He had only three days to report after his notice arrived and the entire third day, Josef knew, would be spent traveling. The first, he spent in shock with a fussy baby and a hysterical wife. The second morning, his last with his family, Josef dressed in his only suit and took his small family by rail outside Cologne to visit Tatiana's family on their tiny farm. There he talked with Tatiana's father and brother while she took comfort in the presence of her mother. That afternoon, Josef pulled Rosa in an old wagon and briefly posed with Tatiana and the baby for her brother, an amateur photographer, who later sent the small photograph to Josef by mail. Assigned to the Kriegsmarine, Josef labored as a cadet until spotted on duty one day in port by his old friend, Hans Gunther Kuhlmann. Kuhlmann, about to begin sea trials of the newly outfitted U-166, demanded an English translator as part of his crew and pointed to “that man . . . the one with the broom,” as an example of one who could fill the position. He had heard the man, Kuhlmann said in what was not quite a lie, teaching English to children.

Bilingual crew members were in great demand, especially aboard U-boats, whose men sometimes found themselves thousands of miles from friendly food and fuel. The Nazi gold each submarine carried for just such a purpose would often be used as payment for these necessities.

Bilingual crews were one thing, but Kuhlmann knew the area of the world to which he was about to be sent. He needed a man absolutely fluent in English. That the man he demanded happened to be his best friend, well, that was a bonus and could remain their little secret.

Josef, for his part, was delighted. He and his boyhood friend shared a common philosophy about the war. That much was established immediately. The two men fought for Germany and had their own reasons for doing so . . . but both had refused the opportunity to join the Nazi Party.

Once on board, Josef was quickly promoted from cadet to sub, or under, lieutenant, and he became the commander's unofficial right hand during the submarine's sea trials. These exercises, conducted in hostile waters during wartime, were much riskier than a typical shakedown cruise. Therefore, when the U-166 was caught on the surface by a British Spitfire, it was not totally unexpected. The Royal Air Force pilot had strafed them, and scrambling to get off the conning tower where he was stationed with his captain, Josef pushed Kuhlmann down the hatch and away from the hail of bullets. For this act, he was awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class, and at the insistence of Kuhlmann, he wore the ribbon as a part of his uniform. The medal he carried in his pocket, though its very existence embarrassed him greatly. When Josef “saved” the U-166 commander, he was only trying to get out of the way.

Josef saw Tatiana and Rosa only once more after joining the U-166. With a three-day pass—May 28–31—he spent much of the time traveling home to the tiny apartment in Cologne. The hours were precious, but he had been exhausted. Josef slept on the threadbare couch for much of his visit, Rosa climbing all over her father, Tatiana quietly stroking the face of the man she loved.

Had it been only sixteen days? Josef blinked his eyes several times and carefully placed the photograph back into his waterproof submariner's pack. Sixteen days seemed to have lasted a lifetime. Josef stood. Kuhlmann had left him in his cabin, ostensibly to clean, but in reality affording his friend the only luxury there was on a Type IXC—privacy. Josef was grateful and had taken the moment to dream of his family. As he stepped through Kuhlmann's curtain, the present once again washed over him like a foul tide.

“Landermann!”

Josef turned toward the sound of the voice. It was Ernst Schneider, the boat's official observer. As a Nazi Party representative, Schneider sailed with the U-166 for the purpose of watching and reporting the actions and attitudes of the officers and crew. It was a task deemed especially important in the Unterseebootwaffe. Sub commanders were an independent lot, after all. Thinking “beyond the circumstance” was their stock-in-trade. It was often what kept their crew alive, but this independent thinking, it was feared, could lead to independent action . . . and
that
could never be tolerated.

“Landermann!” the observer called again as he approached.

“Yes?” Josef coolly replied.

Narrowing his eyes, Schneider said, “You will address me as ‘sir.'”

Josef crossed his arms and tilted his head. “I am required to address the officers of this boat as ‘sir.' You, however, are not an officer of this boat. Therefore, I will address you with respect, but as I please.”

Schneider stared hard at him, choosing for the moment to ignore the slight, and said, “I want to meet you and Commander Kuhlmann in the mess immediately. Retrieve him for me, please. I will wait there.” He turned to go, then turned back and added, “And don't push me, Landermann. I hold your life in my hands.”

Josef watched Schneider move away, confident that what the man said was true. It was rumored that on his last assignment, a gunboat, Schneider's observations had resulted in four men having been shot—one of them an officer.

Josef had no doubt about what Schneider would do if he were goaded, but it simply wasn't in him to roll over for a bully . . . and this one in particular. Hans Kuhlmann wasn't the only man on the U-166 Josef had known when he came aboard. Schneider had also attended Oxford in the same scholarship program of which Josef was a part. The two men were the same age, twenty-six, attended several of the same classes, were fluent in English—but beyond the veneer, they were as different as a puppy and a snake.

Ernst Schneider had grown up on the streets of Berlin. His father, a machinist by trade, was a drunk who beat his wife and daughters but, curiously, never his son. Perhaps that was partly why Ernst arrived at Oxford with a sense of entitlement. He was dark-haired, square-jawed, tall, and strikingly handsome. Students were initially drawn to this physically attractive young man, but soon shied from his arrogant, sometimes cruel, manner. This bearing was on display in the classroom as well as on the athletic field and in social settings.

Among the faculty and students, it was well known that Schneider had joined the Nazi Party as soon as it had been promoted on campus. To be sure, he was not the only one, but he was its most ardent promoter. Ernst Schneider was proud of the newly formed party and openly proclaimed its merits to anyone who would listen.

Josef had been a member of a historical discussion group at Oxford for a time that included the girl whom Schneider dated. She was absent for several sessions, then returned with bruises that had yet to heal on her face. The young woman explained the marks with a story about an automobile accident, but Josef wondered. After all, the discoloration was not only on the front of her face, but on the sides and the back of her neck as well. What kind of automobile accident did that?

Schneider was finally expelled from Oxford at the beginning of his third year. And Josef knew why. After all, he had had a front row seat to the beating Schneider delivered to an art history professor in front of the man's class. It had been savage and swift. The professor had been commenting favorably on the work of Britain's own Jacob Epstein, a sculptor in huge favor at the time with the bohemian crowd, when he also mentioned that Epstein was a Jew.

The class, Josef included, had watched in slack-jawed wonder as Schneider strode to the front of the room and casually picked up a bronze bust from the professor's desk. Then, before anyone knew what was happening or could react, he grabbed the older man's hair and smashed the heavy object into the professor's face. Schneider got in four vicious blows before Josef and another student restrained him. How Schneider had gotten out of the country and avoided arrest Josef never knew.

The two men had been only passing acquaintances at Oxford, and “For God's sake, stop!” had been the only four words Josef had ever spoken to his classmate. But when Josef arrived aboard the U-166 as the boat's new translator, Schneider recognized him immediately.

“We do not need this man,” Schneider protested to Commander Kuhlmann. “I can be the boat's translator. I speak English flawlessly.”

“That may be so,” Kuhlmann responded, “but I speak English only to a moderate degree, and I want to be certain that the exact words I ask to be spoken . . . are the words actually coming from my translator's mouth. Do I make myself clear?” And just like that, before the submarine ever sailed, Ernst Schneider had two enemies on board.

Schneider did not stand as the commander entered the mess with his under-lieutenant. “Gentlemen,” he said, “join me.”

Kuhlmann never met Schneider's eyes. He went instead to the coffeepot and slowly poured Josef, then himself, a cup. Only after taking a sip of the bitter liquid did he motion for Josef to sit down. The commander offered nothing—coffee or a nod of recognition—to the party's official observer. After another swallow, he finally looked at the man and said, “Yes?”

Not intimidated in the least, Ernst Schneider removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Commander Kuhlmann,” he began, “I have asked you and your translator to join me as I construct my report on our latest enemy contact.” He leaned forward and dramatically poised his pen above the paper. “Could you explain, please, why the crew of the freighter
Gertrude
was warned before the attack, at significant risk to this vessel I might add, then not only allowed to go free, but given our own precious provisions and directions as well?”

Kuhlmann seemed to consider the question. “Because it's my wife's name?” he answered.

Josef snorted, stifling a laugh as Schneider quickly looked from one to the other. “Pardon?”

“Gertrude is my wife's name,” Kuhlmann said slowly as if explaining something to a child. “I thought it only fair that we not shoot her too quickly.”

The two men stared at each other unblinking until Schneider, at last, slowly leaned back in his chair and closed his notebook. Placing his pen back into his jacket pocket, he said, “I am pleased that you find this a source of amusement, Commander. I assure you, my superiors will not. Look here, you placed this vessel in jeopardy . . .”

“No, you look here,” Kuhlmann interrupted. “At no time was the 166 in danger. The target was identified as unarmed and lightly crewed. As for allowing the men to go free, what would you have me do, shoot them in the water? The freighter's crew are noncombatants. The freighter's supplies were the enemy, not the men. And giving two canteens of water and compass bearings was the least a decent human being could do. Certainly I hope the Allies would do our merchant seamen the same courtesy.”