Free Island of Saints by Andy Andrews Page B

disguised look of contempt. And there was something else too . . . an expression of . . . what? Advantage? Victory? An odd countenance, Josef thought, on a man whose presence is being disregarded. What is he up to?
    Josef wasn’t long in finding out. As the men questioned Kuhlmann about navigation of Gulf routes and fuel-to-distance ratios, Ernst Schneider interrupted. “Commander Kuhlmann.” They all turned to see him remove a book from the folds of his jacket. Holding it forward, he asked, “What is this?” The first warm rays of the morning sun were just streaking above the horizon, but Josef felt a distinct chill run down his spine.
    The book’s cover was red hardboard with black lettering. A circular stain from a carelessly placed water glass dirtied the front of the book to the right of its title. Josef recognized the object in Schneider’s hand, for it was his. And it had been hidden in Kuhlmann’s bunk—a location both Josef and Hans had been certain would be safe from Schneider’s prying.
    Kuhlmann recognized it too, and figuring the best defense was to attack, he spoke immediately and loudly. “Schneider! I will have you in chains for this! That book is mine and was in my stateroom. You dare to enter my private quarters without my permission? Wille, Fischer, arrest this man and confine him to the engine room.”
    One look from Schneider was all it took to stop Wille, the chief quartermaster, and Seaman Second Class Fischer in their tracks. Unsure of themselves, they looked to Kuhlmann again, but before he could urge them on, Schneider spoke, not intimidated in the least. “You will not arrest me, Commander, and you know why. Point one . . . I have also been given a mission on this voyage—by the admiral himself—and as I am the only one able to decipher the enigma code pertaining to that mission, you will stand well clear of me.
    â€œIn addition, I do not believe this book is yours.” He cocked his head curiously and held the book loosely in front of him, turning it and bouncing it in his hand. “This book is typeset in English, and forgive me, but I do not judge your command of the language sufficient to digest a tome of this complexity and magnitude.” Schneider paused dramatically and affected a casual attitude, flipping through the pages as if he had all the time in the world. No one dared breathe as he held the book aloft again. He turned sharply and pointed the book at Josef. “I believe this book is yours.”
    The men unconsciously moved away from Josef, leaving him to stand alone, facing his accuser. “And all this time, Landermann, I thought you were cleaning the commander’s stateroom . . . a cabin boy . . . now it appears you are a traitor as well.” Schneider made a tsk, tsk sound as he shook his head.
    Schneider held the book up for all to see and read its title aloud in German: “ Im Westen Nichts Neues.” The men glanced nervously from Schneider to Kuhlmann as the Nazi continued to berate Josef. Moving closer, he said, “You are aware—everyone is aware—that this book is illegal?” Josef did not speak. “Come now, Landermann . . . did you not remember that I can read English as well as you? Did you think I would not recognize Remarque’s classic? But help me here, Landermann . . . if every copy of All Quiet on the Western Front has been burned by specific order of the Führer . . . what is an English translation of it doing in your possession?” Schneider shifted his eyes toward Kuhlmann. “And in your stateroom?”
    The observer let the thought hang in the air for a moment, then stepped to Josef and extended his hand, palm up. “Sub pack, Landermann,” he demanded.
    Josef licked his lips and shot his eyes to Hans Kuhlmann, who nodded slightly. “Present your submariner’s pack now, Landermann!” Schneider said again more forcefully. Josef never