Chapter III
Monday, April 20.
Morning has broken in the tropics. On a beach on the island’s southwestern tip, sand crabs go scurrying to and fro. Some duck into the tides, others bury themselves in the sand as they try to avoid being captured by seagulls. As the Ficus trees sway in the breeze, a flock of scarlet ibises take noisily to the air. Something in the brush has scared them. The seagulls, also sensing danger, fly away as quickly as they can.
Seconds later, Keith Cooper, staggering and as scraggly as can be, emerges from the woods. Losing his footing, he collapses and falls on the shore. Getting to his knees, he crawls along the beach examining clam shells as if expecting a feast inside each one. Disappointed, he gets up and staggers towards a thickly wooded mangrove nearby.
Edging through the swampy, nearly impenetrable area, he sees a tall, black tree with a large nest in its branches and climbs it. In the nest, he sees three bluish white eggs with brown spots the size of golf balls. Ecstatic, he quickly grabs each egg, break them open, and drink the contents.
Suddenly, a shrieking red tailed hawk flies towards him with its talons bared. Angry, it attacks him, trying its best to scratch his face and force him to move. Keith leaps off the saline-tolerant tree and races back to the beach. The bird doesn’t give chase. Instead, it wails so loudly that it sounds almost like a human voice.
In the woods near the west shore, Wieck is using the machete to cut vines down while Dr. Scott sits by watching, tending to the primitive splint around his left knee. The fishing net is on the ground by his feet. Grace and Rochelle approach.
“Where’s the boat?” Grace demands, her voice imbued with astonishment.
“Probably halfway to Atlantis by now,” Dr. Scott jokes.
“Seriously?”
“No,” Wieck responds. “The tide rose during the night and dragged it off.”
“I thought it was secure,” Rochelle states.
“I thought so, too,” Wieck admits. “It was really in bad shape. We wouldn’t have been able to go too far in it anyway.”
“All it needed was a little TLC,” Grace guesses. “Now we’re really screwed.”
Frustrated, she sits down next to Dr. Scott. “How are you feeling?” she asks him.
“I’m okay.”
“So now how do we get out of here?” Rochelle poses.
Wieck shakes his head. “I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“No, I don't. Why don't you two help us?”
“What do you mean you don't know?”
“I don’t know!” the captain beams, nearly snapping a fuse in his neck. All eyes focus on him and his surprising outburst.
“Sorry,” he apologizes.
“What're you doing anyway?” Grace asks him.
“Cutting vines to make a bigger net. We need to add it to this one because of the holes.”
“How’d you get it from under Silverleaf?”
“He’d rolled off it during the night.”
Wieck lays the machete on the ground, picks up the nylon net, and examines it.
“What's the matter?” Rochelle asks.
“If we can weave the vines into this, we can stretch it across the inlet like a seine.”
Rochelle turns and looks at the inlet. “That's ridiculous. It's too wide.”
“Unless you can catch a sea gull, I don't see what choice we have. Instead of criticizing, why don't you help? You're a part of this crew, too.”
Rochelle picks up the machete. Wieck eyes her. “Be careful with that thing. It’s…”
Rochelle strikes a vine draped across a stone slab. The machete shatters into numerous pieces.
“…rusty.”
“Sorry,” Rochelle apologizes.
Capt. Wieck throws up his hands. “I give up.”
Minutes later, in a clearing not too far from where they were originally assembled, Grace, Migdalia, Rochelle, Wieck, and Silverleaf are weaving the vines into the nylon net. The grotesque hybrid is so heavy that their faces betray their hopelessness. The still ailing Dr. Scott is sitting on a stump watching the group. It begins drizzling.
“I don't think this will work,” Silverleaf, fully rejuvenated after his long rest, doubts.
Rochelle is exasperated. “It's pointless is what it is!”
“We don't have a choice!” Migdalia yells. “You want to die from starvation?”
“I think I should help,” Dr. Scott states.
Grace isn’t so sure. “You need to rest your knee.” She turns to Silverleaf. “How are you feeling? You looked as pale as a ghost last night.”
“I’m better. I learned my lesson.”
“It was probably rock tripe, edible lichen,” Dr. Scott explains, “but it should’ve been leached and boiled, just to be sure.”
Scott then stands up, albeit with some difficulty.
“I can help,” he offers to all.
“Don't worry 'bout us,” Grace tells him. “We’ll be fine.”
“I've never been dependent on anybody in my life. I don't want to start now.”
Rochelle abandons the net. “Good. He can take my place.”
“You stay where you are,” Wieck orders.
Rochelle resumes weaving as Dr. Scott joins the group. He grabs a vine and begins weaving it through holes in the net. Rochelle is working, but her sulking gets noticed by Dr. Scott.
“Just look at this as therapy,” he advises.
Rochelle’s not so sure. “I need therapy like I need a hole in my head.”
An hour later, the group of six is waist high in the inlet’s water holding the huge net horizontally just beneath the surface. Nearly ten feet wide by twelve feet long, Migdalia, Wieck, Dr. Scott and Rochelle each hold the weaved monstrous mesh at its corners. Grace and Silverleaf are grabbing in the middles. Already, it is raining though not so heavily.
“Well, I guess we'll have to do this some other time,” Rochelle laments.
“We may as well do this now,” Wieck suggests. “It's gonna rain all day.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a seafarer. It’s my job to read the clouds. Also, look at the tides. They’re stirring as if preparing for a change in the weather.”
Rochelle groans. “What a week this has been.”
“On my mark, we dip,” Wieck mentions. “One…two…three…dip!”
They raise the cumbersome net and submerge it down towards their ankles. All struggle with its increased weight. After a few seconds, they raise it out of the water. There's nothing in it, not even a shell. The water in the inlet rise a little as it starts raining heavier.
“This is crazy!” Rochelle blurts out.
Silverleaf nods, the rain lashing his eyes. “I agree.”
“We have to keep trying!” Migdalia insists.
“I can't even see with all this damned water in my eyes!” Rochelle yells.
“Perhaps we can do this some other time,” Dr. Scott suggests.
Grace isn’t so sure. “I think it’s now or never.”
“On my mark!” Wieck begins again, “one…two…three…dip!”
They drop it deeply in the brine and bring it up. This time it contains nothing more than a handful of minnows flapping for their lives.
Dr. Scott loses his balance and falls under the surface.
“Eddie!” Grace shouts.
Wieck and Grace abandon the net and dive into the water. Seconds later they bring Dr. Scott to the surface.
Grace looks at him. “I told you not to come in.”
“I'm fine. Just lost my footing.”
Wieck turns to him. “Why don't you sit this one out?”
“I'll be okay.”
“You don't have to kill yourself,” Grace warrants.
Dr. Scott grabs his end of the net. Grace and Wieck return to their position.
“I'm losing my footing,” Silverleaf states.
“You think you can hold on?” Wieck asks.
?
??Yeah, I guess. It’s kind of hard to do with this water beating against us.”
“Let’s try one more time,” Migdalia suggests.
Rochelle is still bothered by the experience. “This is absurd.”
Silverleaf nods. “I have to agree.”
“Ow!” Rochelle shouts. “My fingers are caught!”
Silverleaf jumps. “There’s something nibbling my leg!”
“Now’s the time!” Wieck interrupts. “On my mark…dip!”
They drop the cumbersome net in the water for the third time. Doubt, hanging heavily over the crew like a blanket of uncertainty, threatens to finally soak every last bit of hope still lingering in their exhausted veins. Seconds later, when they raise the heavy net to the surface, the doubt evaporates as they notice that it is full of fish, flapping fish, multi-colored mid-Atlantic flapping fish – mackerel, grouper, red and yellow tailed snapper, and a few land crabs for good measure. A chorus of rejoicing erupts from the fishing troupe all at once.
“It actually worked!” Scott shouts, elated.
“I told you!” Migdalia beams. “We did this back home all the time.”
Rochelle, finally, is smiling. “This is great!”
Silverleaf is grinning ear to ear. “We’re gonna have a feast today!”
Hours later, despite Wieck’s dire prediction, it has stopped raining. Keith, ambling through the thickly-wooded mangrove with a sturdy stick in hand, forages a path northward till he comes to the calmest, bluest lake he’s ever seen. Roughly the size of a football field, it is beset on all sides by a contiguous forest. A mist hovers leisurely over the water like a soft coverlet. All is quiet, save for the sound of the winds whispering through the emerald treetops and the high-pitched whistling of Orinoco geese some 100 feet out in the lake. Stooping down at the water’s edge, he splashes some of its cool liquid on his face and neck, then pricks up his ears when he hears a dog barking in the distance. Grabbing his stick, he follows the sound eastward till he comes to a compound in the woods and spies, from his hiding post behind an old spruce, an oddly painted green and brown cottage in a clearing. A few yards from the cottage he sees a pen containing a handful of chickens, ducks, and goats. Next to the pen is a large brown old weather-beaten barn.
Carefully, he abandons his post and tiptoes towards the barn. Suddenly, a large Doberman pinscher comes rushing towards him. Startled, he drops his stick, turns, and flies up a corkwood tree nearly 30 feet high. Seconds later, he perches himself on one of its strong gray branches, out of reach of the barking dog.
He averts his stare when he hears someone whistle sharply in the distance. Looking towards the cottage, he sees an old, gray-haired, white-bearded bespectacled man in brown coveralls and black boots. With a rifle in hand, he is marching up to the imposing mongrel.
“Hercules!” the old man shouts.
The dog stops barking at once and backs away from the tree.
Keith looks downwards. “About time.”
He begins climbing off the tree. The dog starts barking again.
“Hey,” he shouts to the old man, “call him off, willya?”
The old man silences the dog by touching its head. He then looks angrily up at the intruder. “You're trespassing!”
Keith immediately notices the old man has an accent, but he is at odds on its origin. Still, for the moment, he has one question for him. “Where am I?”
“Who are you?” the old man replies in kind, his rifle still aimed at Keith. “What do you want? How did you get here?”
“My name's Keith Vicar. I was on a Caribbean cruise two days ago. Some robbers blew up half the ship then the hurricane finished it off. I drifted here on a raft down by the mangrove.”
“Who else is with you?”
“Nobody else. I'm the lone survivor.”
The old man eyes Keith sharply. “A ship full of crewmen and passengers and you are the lone survivor? You're lying! How did you come to be here?!”
“I drifted here!”
The old man shoots the branch Keith is on. Startled, he nearly falls off. “Hey! Take it easy!”
“Then tell me the truth!”
“That’s the truth! Let me down. I'm unarmed.”
The old man studies Keith intently.
“I find it difficult to believe you,” the elderly stranger admits. “From out of the woods you came suddenly, and you say you’re alone out of everyone else? Tell me the truth or prepare to die!”
“I’m just a wanderer, stranded at sea. I have nothing, nobody. I’m all there is. No more.”
The old man eyes him carefully. “Don't do anything stupid. Hercules here will tear you apart.”
“Thank you.”
Carefully, Keith climbs down the tree, keeping his eyes fixed on the massive mongrel. The old man maintains his aim at the intruder lest he make any sudden moves. Hercules sniffs the anxious young man thoroughly when he finally descends, his sharp teeth poised to rip his flesh should his master demand it.
“Are you sure you're alone?” the old man asks again.
“Yes.”
“From a big cruise ship, ja?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. That means others will come looking soon. You have to leave right away.”
“What? Leave? How? It must be hundreds of miles to the nearest mainland!”
The old man ponders for a moment. Keith, staring, at him, guesses he must be at least sixty years old. A million questions flood his mind. Were those lines etched on his face the experience of war or simply survival in these dense forests? How did he come to be here? Where is his ship? What country did he come from?
“You stay in the barn today,” the old man tells him. "There is hay for sleep, but you must leave later.”
“Thanks. What's your name?”
“Wilhelm Baumann.”
“You're German?”
“Ja. Of course.”
“This might sound strange, but it seems like I've seen you before. Do I know you, like from TV or the movies?”
Instead of answering, Baumann turns to his dog. “Hercules, Komme sie! We go!”
Abruptly, dog and master exit towards the hut.
Keith shakes his head. “What a kook.”
Minutes later, Keith is walking around the dusty old barn inspecting its innards. Against one wall are stacks of flour, potatoes, green plantains, cassavas, and dried mangoes in glass jars. Opening one, he takes a piece of the dried fruit and chews it like gum. He then inspects the separated stalls. They contain nothing but fiber and straw. To his touch, they feel rough; however, tired from his trek, he lies down in one of the stalls anyway and closes his eyes.
Later that day, Wieck and Silverleaf are cutting and de-boning fish with jagged rocks on the western shore. Rochelle and Migdalia wash the filleted fish with salt water and lay them out on a bed of thatch palm leaves they’d found while foraging. The heads, tails and innards of the tropical haul are thrown in a pit for later disposal. Grace and Dr. Scott are the only two survivors not around. Rochelle stops to stretch for a minute.
“Anybody tired of this place yet? I know I am.”
“We all are,” Silverleaf explains, also taking a break. “Boy, do I miss civilization.”
“What did you do back there?” Rochelle asks him.
“I managed hotels. I went around and sold suites to businesses.”
Rochelle rolls her eyes. “Sounds…exciting.”
“What did you do?”
“Not much,” she shrugs.
“You know,” Wieck supposes, “I can make a fortune down here.”
“How?” Silverleaf asks.
“As a tourist attraction. You set up some casinos on the beach, a couple of hotels, a few pool halls and a sheriff station. It’ll do all right.”
“That's good,” Silverleaf agrees. “You'd need a manager to run the hotels here. I can picture it now. Silverleaf Enterprises. There for your every move.”
Rochelle
groans. “I'm glad you guys are having a blast.”
Wieck gets up. “Oh, my back! I feel stiff. I’m going for a walk.”
“Where are you going?” Migdalia asks.
“Exploring. There must be more to this place than we'd seen. Want to come?”
“¡Ay dios mio, papi! What about the fish? We’re not finished drying it yet. We have to use all this sunlight now or it will spoil.”
Wieck groans.
“We’re almost finished at our end anyway,” Silverleaf tells her. “You ladies can finish this up, right?”
Migdalia’s not happy with the idea, but goes along with it anyway. “Yeah, okay.”
“I want to go, too,” Silverleaf admits. He stands and turns to Wieck. “We can discuss our future ventures along the way.”
“If you two come back empty handed,” Rochelle warns them, “don’t come back.”
Wieck salutes her.
Grace and Dr. Scott are sitting side by side on a bank at the side of the blue lake gazing out across the graceful pond. Like a picture postcard, the calm and stillness adds to its natural unspoiled beauty.
“This is tremendous,” Dr. Scott muses. “Reminds me of the Rio de Oro in San Luis, New Mexico.”
“You get around a lot, don't you?”
“Not nearly as much as I'd like to.”
Grace touches his hand. He kisses her cheek.
“You've very gentle,” she whispers, “for a doctor.”
It was only a matter of time before anyone from the party discovered Baumann’s compound. Wieck and Silverleaf, staring disbelievingly at the hut from behind a group of trees about 100 feet away, are the first. They also see Hercules sleeping in front of the cottage.
“Who do you suppose lives there?” Silverleaf whispers to his partner.
“I don't know.”
“Why don't you go find out?”
“Don't you see that dog lying there?”
“You know how bad my eyes are. Is it a vicious one?”
“It’s a Doberman. Maybe we'll both go.”
“Sorry, captain. I can’t outrun a dog.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
“Maybe we can throw a rock to the door. Whoever’s inside might come out.”
“You’re presupposing the dog will attack. Maybe it won’t.”
“Do you want to chance it?”
“No.”
Wieck takes a deep breath and starts tiptoeing towards the cottage. Suddenly, Hercules awakens and charges right towards them. Immediately, they turn, run, and trip over roots jutting from the ground.
Lying on their backs, they look up into the face of the snarling barking canine, spittle draining from its mouth like a ravenous lion.
Baumann comes storming out of the hut with his rifle. He fires once into the air.
Hercules backs off a little. He stops barking, but he is constantly vigilant.
From inside the barn, Keith awakens from the gunshot.
Baumann approaches the two new faces with his rifle aimed.
“Was zum Teufel! So! There are more intruders!” he observes. “I should've known! I'm under attack!”
“Doch schiessen! [Don't shoot!]” Wieck yells.
“Ah! Sprechen Sie Deutsch! [Ah! You speak German!]” Baumann replies.
“Ich ein Schiffbruchige! [I'm a castaway!]”
“She viele heute ich verstehe! [I've seen too many today!]”
“Wer anders ist es? [Who else is there?]”
Baumann looks to the barn. “Komme sie!”
Keith exits the barn cautiously. Baumann backs away, allowing Silverleaf and Wieck to stand. Hercules stands guard. Wieck looks at Keith.
“Don't I know you?” the captain asks.
“No, but I recognize you. You're the Captain of the QVII. I thought I was alone here.”
“Genugt! [Enough!]” Baumann yells, pointing his shooter. “Mir reifst die Geduld! [My patience is wearing thin!] Wer werden sein der erste? [Who'll be the first?]”
Just then, a slightly tipsy woman in her late 40's staggers out of the cottage with half a jar of liquor in her hand. Her blonde hair is strewn loosely about her weather-beaten face. Light pastel clothes flow loosely about her, betraying a shapely form. Surprisingly beautiful, there is an air of sophistication around her despite the alcohol swimming through her veins. She looks at Baumann.
“Halt! Wilhelm! Was machst du? [What are you doing?]”
“Don't interrupt, Clara! These people are all trespassing.”
“Trespassing? You yourself heard the reports about the ship over the short wave.”
Baumann glances at her. “You're drunk. Get back inside or I'll shoot you, too.”
“Then do it! It'd only end years and years of agonizing pain!”
Wieck, Silverleaf, and Keith stare at each other not knowing what to think of this strangely cloistered couple. Then, they hear a female voice call out from the woods. It’s Rochelle.
“Keith!”
All turn to see Rochelle race out of the woods, closely followed by Grace, Migdalia, and Dr. Scott.
They stop in their tracks when they see the old man with the rifle.
Baumann grinds his teeth. “Das ist doch die Hohe! [That's just about the limit!]
He aims blankly at Rochelle’s group and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. They gasp and run for cover. He frantically pulls the trigger again while everyone runs off. Nothing happens. He turns to his dog.
“Hercules! Attacke!!”
The dog rushes towards a prepared Dr. Scott who hits it squarely in the face with a big stick. Yelping, Hercules flies over to one side.
Wieck leaps towards Baumann. They wrestle.
Clara throws up her hands in disgust and walks backs into the cottage.
Keith runs to Rochelle. They embrace.
Grace joins Dr. Scott in fending off the angry Doberman.
Silverleaf and Migdalia also grab sticks and help stave off the snarling dog.
Clara returns from the cottage with a pistol and fires it in the air.
All action stops. Wieck gets off Baumann. Hercules trots over to his master's side.
Baumann walks towards Clara. “Bring that pistol to me!”
She shakes her head. “Nein!”
The bearded recluse is astonished. “Eh?”
“Why all this anger?” she extols. “There is too much. Let them stay till rescue arrives.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?”
“Are you so blind that can't you see you're outnumbered?”
Like a trained seal, Hercules suddenly leaps at Clara. Startled, she shrieks and drops the gun. Baumann picks it up. Hercules returns to his master’s side. The old man pats its head lovingly. “Guten, Hercules,” he whispers to the cur.
Clara throws up her arms. “I hate that mutt!”
She returns to the cottage. Baumann turns to the intruders. “You people can stay here just one day,” he tells them, “but tomorrow, you have to go. And don’t tell me there’s no more of you because I won’t believe it!”
Turning, he retreats to the cottage. Hercules stands guard outside.
Grace scratches her head. “Crazy old fool.”
About three hours later, Clara is outside the hut giving the seven castaways a grand tour of her remote homestead. Now relatively sober and relaxed after a short nap, she is comfortably attired in a slim khaki safari outfit, matched by black winkle pickers and brown ankle-high boots made of supple leather. Strutting around the island’s uneven terrain with ease, it seems she was naturally made for the forest. Traipsing further, they arrive at a small stream where a garden has been created.
“I’ve been creating this patch for some time,” she informs them. “See? Mimosas, hibiscuses, and desert roses – all around this uni tree. Most of these flowers were already growing here. I simply transplanted a few. Attraktiv, ja?”
“Just who are you people anyway?” Rochelle asks. “I mean, why here? Why s
o far away from everything? As far as I can see, there’s nothing here.”
“It’s so remote,” Keith adds.
“Don't you miss home, Clara?” Migdalia ponders. “You must get lonesome.”
“This is home,” the secluded blonde answers, “as strange as it seems. I apologize for the old coot. He's been cloistered too long. If you ask me, he dotes on that mutt too much.”
“Is he your father?”
“Nein. My husband.”
“He looks so old.”
“And paranoid as hell,” Keith adds.
“Don't worry about him,” Clara insists. “Bei ihm ist Hopfen und Malz verloren.”
Keith turns to Wieck. “What does that mean?”
“She said he's a hopeless case,” the Captain translates.
“I was young and stupid when we met,” Clara continues. “What did I know?”
“What part of Germany are you from?” Wieck asks.
“Berlin.”
“Are you going back?” Rochelle inquires.
“You people are full of curiosity, ja?” she answers. “You’ll know everything in due time.”
Night falls quickly, and much too soon, when an adventurer is in the midst of discovering nature. The distant sounds of seagulls and marsh birds fade, only to be replaced by the familiar chirping of crickets, night owls and other nocturnal birds. The forest grows even more quiet and serene as the activity which kept the trees active also dissipate to a barren stillness.
The seven castaways, awaiting their host’s company, are sitting around several boxes neatly arranged in the front yard as a makeshift table. Enjoying their bowls of vegetable soup near the Baumann hut, they couldn’t ask for a better welcome.
Two lit candles sit on each box. Music is playing from a shortwave radio inside. The ever-watchful Hercules is sitting by the side of the cottage eyeing the guests. Migdalia glances at it intermittently.
“That dog gives me the creeps.”
“Don’t stare at it,” Grace advises her. “It senses fear.”
“So, what do you make of these people?” Dr. Scott asks no one in particular.
“If you ask me,” Rochelle whispers, “I’d say they’re off their rockers.”
“This potato soup is good,” Silverleaf notices. “At least she can cook.”
“I wonder what's in the house,” Keith muses.
“Just try to find out with that dog sitting there!” Wieck jokes.
“You know,” Dr. Scott observes, “it's very odd. We've pretty much scouted around this entire island, and there's not a beacon, not a sailboat, not a bridge or landing strip of any kind.”
“Yeah, so?” Rochelle asks. “What’s your point?”
“I know what he means,” Keith answers. “Somebody's bringing them their goods and supplies. Just look at all those sacks in the barn.”
“Maybe they're in exile,” Silverleaf whispers.
“What does that mean?” Migdalia asks.
“That's what happens to political prisoners when…”
He stops speaking when Clara emerges from the cottage with a large pot of steaming soup in her hands. No longer wearing her safari suit, she’s now attired in a slim polka dotted dress with a broad vinyl belt and soft patent leather pumps. Wieck, Keith, Silverleaf and Dr. Scott stand.
“Bitte, setzen,” Clara encourages them. “Please, sit down.”
The four men sit. Grace goes to each “table” and ladles out her thick soup to each guest.
“This is Braunchweige soup,” she informs them. “A delicacy in Germany. Enjoy.”
“What’s in it?” Rochelle asks.
“Cabbage, dumplings, some spices,” Clara replies.
“Where's Wilhelm?” Wieck asks. “Is he joining us?”
“Nein. Today's his birthday. He's seventy-one years old. Unlike everyone else, he celebrates alone.”
“He's pretty strong for his age,” Wieck notices.
“Oh, he exercises every chance he gets. I’ll tell you a secret. The closer he gets to the grave, the more desperate his will to survive becomes.”
“Are you joining us?”
“Nein. I have things inside to do. Auf wiedersehen.” Laying down the pot with the ladle, she returns to the cottage.
Wieck rubs his chin. “There's something familiar about those two.”
Dr. Scott raises his bowl overhead. “Look at this.”
“What is it?” Grace asks.
“There's a black X marked under it. Even my cutlery and cup, everything, marked with an X.”
Rochelle shrugs. “So?”
The others casually examine their own place settings.
“Nothing's on mine,” Silverleaf states.
Keith shakes his head. “Mine, either.”
“I have it, too,” Grace notices. “I guess we've been singled out.”
“Singled out?” Rochelle asks. “For what?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Scott wonders aloud.
“Doctor,” Rochelle suggests, “a blind man can see the point you're trying to make. Just come out and say it.”
“No,” he responds. “It's not important.”
Baumann sticks his head out from the doorway and looks at Wieck. “I will have a word with you,” the old man demands.
“Me?” the captain asks, pointing to himself.
“Ja.”
“Now?”
“Ja.”
Abruptly, Baumann sticks his head back in the hut and closes the door. Migdalia twirls a finger in circles by her temple.
“Ay, papi, senor es loco. Insanio.”
Rochelle nods. “I'll say.”
Keith looks at Wieck. “What d'ya think he wants with you?”
“I don't know,” the captain answers. “I guess there's only one way to find out.”
Inside Baumann’s hut a few moments later, Wieck is standing awestruck at the vast display of WWII memorabilia adorning every nook and cranny of the small cottage. Most of the decorations, he notices, are Third Reich artifacts.
On one wall is a giant red, white and black swastika flag. On others, he sees several different iron crosses, photographs of top Nazi officials, a heraldic tent complete with bull & uniform figures, Karabiner and Gewehr rifles, and SS uniforms. On the wall opposite the flag, he sees a framed portrait of Anton Graff’s Frederick the Great, his name inscribed in bold letters in a gold plate beneath the painting.
The room itself is lit by several strategically placed candles and oil lamps. There are numerous paintings, mostly all architectural, attached to the walls. The flickering lights give them an otherworldly glow. Even the ceiling with its numerous Nazi emblems adds to the cottage’s eerie, almost gothic appearance.
Baumann, wearing a black shirt, pants and shoes, emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pours a glass for himself and one for the bewildered sea captain.
“It's old, ja?” Baumann tells him, “but everything improves with age, ja?”
Wieck takes the wine but he is practically speechless.
“I'm…dumfounded. Where did you get these artifacts? Is everything in here real?”
“You insult me with your doubtful supposition. All these things I've gathered over the years. The paintings I did myself. My boy, look in my face. Look deeply in my eyes. Erkennen Sie ich? [Don't you recognize me?]”
Wieck stares deeply at the bearded face before him. The crinkles at the outer canthus of the stranger’s eyes speak volumes as the flames of recognition begin to burn slowly.
“Ja?” Baumann asks.
Finally, the realization of whom Wieck is addressing strikes him like Mjölnir, Thor’s hammer. Shocked, he staggers backwards holding his head.
“This can't be,” the boggled seaman yelps. “My God! The Führer?”
Baumann gently touches the astonished captain’s shoulder.
“Ja, mein freund. I’m as alive and real as the birds what takes to the air. Bitte. Sit.”
&n
bsp; Wieck falls into a wooden chair. His face is so loose his jaw practically plops on his chest.
“I…I thought you were dead. All the reports said so.”
“Ach!” Baumann retorts, waving his arms in the air. “Only a fool believes everything he hears and only half of what he reads.”
“This is too…incredible! Yet, the likeness…your age…yes, it all makes sense! I don't see how it could be. Then, the woman…”
“Frau Eva Braun.”
“Eva Braun!”
“Ja.”
“Der Führer, alive in 1960! I must be dreaming. But how can this be? The Russians…”
“That burned couple the Russians found in 1945 in Berlin, in der Führerbunker neben an der Reichskanzler [Bunker next to the Reich Chancellery],” Baumann explains, “was not me or Eva.”
“What? You mean stand-ins? Imposters?”
“I prefer to call them faithful defenders and loyal apostles of the Third Reich. It was their duty.”
“That's why your body was never found!”
“We were supposedly cremated within ten minutes of committing suicide. Imagine!”
Baumann opens a drawer, removes a little black capsule with white numerals on it, and holds it out for Wieck to examine closely.
“Cyanide,” the white-bearded elder concedes. “I supposedly swallowed this at the fall of Berlin. Everything went according to plan.”
“So, you were smuggled out?”
“Ja. It's not a ghost you're speaking to. My engineers built hundreds of underground tunnels and secret catacombs below der bunker for this purpose. Erich Kempka, my personal chauffeur, arranged a large fleet of drivers and mechanics simply as a decoy. We were quietly escorted out minutes before the Chancellery was destroyed by Ivan [the Soviets]. I saw mein schöne Berlin on fire from my limousine in Grunewald forest nearly 1 ½ kilometers away. Goebbels und Bormann had everything arranged.”
Wieck is so stunned his words come out awkwardly.
“This is…unbelievable! There's that picture of your corpse clutching your mother's photo.”
“Publicity stunt. Oh, mein liebes Freunde, even Hollywood couldn’t do better.”
“But why here? Why this faraway island?”
“Like the others, Eva and I went to Venezuela, then Argentina, and finally, Brazil. My supporters knew I was too important to remain there, or should I say, too recognizable. Even carrying suitcases of gold, we agreed it was too risky. It would've been impossible to keep me a secret, so now I'm here while the Fourth Reich is being developed.”
“Fourth Reich?”
“I underestimated Ivan and the Yanks’ forces, therefore, a new reign must be established.”
“I don’t understand. Isn’t it said a Reich lasts for one thousand years?”
“I cannot see the future in a thousand-year program. The First Reich of the Holy Roman Empire lasted 844 years, from 962 to 1806. The Second Reich of Imperial Germany lasted but 47 years, from 1871 to 1918. Das Dritte Reich had its setback in 1945, 12 years after it had begun. But what a glorious 12 years it was. There will be new leaders, a new base of operations, new soldiers, a new Reich. So now, we have unfinished business. Deutschland uber alles! The Jews would have you believe we were annihilated, and I allow it. Their Mossad is relentless in their push. Still, twice a year, we get deliveries from the mainland, so I’m safe…at the moment.”
“Your memory is amazing. So, there are many of you in Brazil?”
“Brazil, Chile, Paraguay…ja, where my troops are reforming.”
He pounds his fist in the air for emphasis. “We’re developing a whole new group of soldiers. Soon, we will be strong, pure, and invincible again.”
His eyes, Wieck notices, are aflame with power. Physically, his fifteen years in exile may have taken a toll on his looks, but as during the war, his forceful oratorical style is unchanged.
Hitler lowers the tone in his voice. “Join us.”
“What? Me?”
“Aren't you German?”
“Yes, but…”
“It is your duty as a German to participate and serve!”!
“I've been an American for years!”
“Ach! Nonsense! You're German forever. The blood of Der Rhineland flows through your veins. Tell me, when did you leave Germany?”
“1940. I was a young man.”
“Then you must've been in one of my youth training units.”
“Yes, but that was long ago, maybe twenty-five or thirty years.”
“Twenty-five years is not a long time. You were in my service before. You could do it again.”
“In 1940,” Wieck explains, “a group of us went to Switzerland. I wasn’t a political man, but obviously, the times were such that it couldn’t be avoided. I enlisted in the Swiss Army in Stein am Rhein.”
“We had sympathizers there,” Hitler admits, “but Switzerland was such a thorn to me!”
“I was initially ordered into Operation Tannenbaum, but with the influx of refugees, I spent most of my time helping them. After the war, I traveled to America. Since I was already a military man, being a man of the navy was only natural. I was allowed into their naval academy at Annapolis because of my experience during the war and my position as interlocutor in the Swiss Army.”
Wieck rises up. “So, you can see, you have no right to make such demands now.”
Hitler’s eyes narrow sharply. “What?”
“I'm a U.S. Captain, for God's sake!”
“I have brought every European head of state to their knees! What is a U.S. Captain to me?”
Wieck shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I'm retiring for the night.”
Hitler removes a gigantic emerald ring from his finger and hands it to Wieck.
“The former property of King Leopold III of Belgium,” the ex-Führer explicates.
Wieck studies the ring monogrammed with a golden ‘S’ on its shank. Never in his life had he ever seen a stone that large. The old man points at it.
“Do you know what it is?” he asks the fatigued traveler.
Wieck shakes his head then a smile slowly develops. Hitler begins to describe the ring.
“It's the famous…”
“…Siegelring!” Wieck completes it. “It’s so…huge!”
He takes it over to a lit oil lamp in order to see it better. “Look how it glistens in the light! Superb.”
“I will tell you a story,” the recluse begins, arms folded behind his back. “In the mid-16th century, in the Mayan city of T’ho in the Yucatan Peninsula, there lived a thirteen-year-old boy named Huehuetlotl. Like other boys, he was curious, mischievous, and adventurous. He’d follow his older brothers to obsidian flows to help them dig the stones which they’d use for trade, or to build things like plates or other wares. They worked from sun up to sun down with nary a break in between. The better gatherers fashioned weapons from the obsidian, but the larger pieces were best traded as they were a more valuable commodity.”
Wieck takes a seat. Hitler twists his aged neck till it cracks, then he continues his tale.
“One day, young Huehuetlotl unearthed a rare forty carat emerald. Typically, emeralds found outside of a known vein are usually of poor quality, but this one was different. Even unpolished, it glistened like no other. Illuminated, the young man ran to his brothers. They looked at him and urged him not to tell anyone about it otherwise a bad fate would befall them. Since emeralds were uncommon in that part of the world, they would be risking everything if its presence was known.
Around that time, the Spanish conquistadors had been plundering up and down the Central American coast. No one was safe. Somehow, they learned of Huehuetlotl’s stone and sought it for themselves. The natives fought valiantly against the Spanish leader, Francisco de Montejo, but aided by Charles I, the King of Spain, the natives were no match for the conquistador’s forces. Subsequently, many Mayans died in an attempt to locate the stone which, at that time, they thought would bring not only immense wealth t
o its owner but long life as well.
By the time the emerald made its journey to the new world, and after hundreds of men died mysteriously around it, it came to be seen as an omen of bad fortune. Charles I didn’t want anything to do with it. He was having his own problems with the Ottomans at the time and could not afford any more misfortune. So, it was given to one of his closest friends, a conquistador named Jorge Pizarro de Las Casas, who kept it hidden away for years.
A century later, Pizarro’s great granddaughter, Anne Cortes, discovered it wrapped in a scarf in a wooden box hidden up high in the attic of her grandmother’s house. She took it to a gem cutter who carved it into a rectangular shape and fit it in gold housing. Years later, she married Diego of Aragon, a nobleman. It was a troubled marriage as he was unfaithful, a gambler, and a drunkard. Because she was a truly religious woman, Anne never thought of leaving him. However, word of his brutality finally reached the Spanish king, Philip IV.
Diego was brought before him to plead for his life. Although he showed remorse, no one in the court believed him because they knew of his cunning and treacherous ways. Feeling cornered, he presented to the king a present he hoped would spare his life – the Huehuetlotl stone ring stolen from Anne. Philip IV was impressed with it. To his eyes, it was truly the most precious thing he’d ever seen. So, accepting the ring, he spared Diego’s life, but the nobleman was ordered never to visit or speak to Anne for the rest of his days. Because she loved her husband, she never revealed she was the ring’s true owner. Eventually, the nobleman was so distraught that he killed himself by drowning in a Catalonian river just two days later.
The ring took on a life of its own. It was bequeathed from emperor to emperor, traveled to lands foreign and domestic, praised by courtesans and the gentry alike. At one point, the businessman Francis Siegel of France came to possess it and had the ‘S’ created on its shank. One day, it was given to King Gustav V of Sweden by his father, Oscar II, just weeks before his swearing-in ceremony in 1907.
Gustav was an odd fellow. He was very superstitious and suspicious. He was an avid sportsman but trusted no one. He always thought someone within his ranks was trying to assassinate him. He was racked with agonizing paranoia for years. Eventually, he came to believe it was the ring in his possession which tormented him. He couldn’t just throw it away; after all, he was mad, not stupid, so he gave it to his niece, Princess Astrid of Sweden. I had only just been released from Landsberg Prison so this was around 1925. She later married King Leopold III of Belgium from whom I received it in 1940 at the Royal Castle in Brussels. And now…I give it to you.”
Wieck leaps to his feet. “What?! I can't accept this!” He hands the ring back.
Hitler thrusts out his palms and refuses to take it.
“Heinrich,” the statesman lectures him, “in spite of all our reverses, our struggle, the struggles of alle das Aryans, die Herrenvolk, will go down in history as the most courageous and glorious manifestation of a people's will to live!”
Wieck looks again at the ring, takes a deep breath and, reluctantly, puts it on the middle finger of his right hand where it loosely fits.
“Don't you see?” Hitler continues. “I know you must. You are ambitious. It's in your eyes. One of my supply planes will be coming soon. I will get you on it. With but a simple command, I can make you rich and powerful. Tell me? What do you have to go back to in America? There's nothing to consider. This is the time! You can use your former training to good use with our youth in Brazil and elsewhere. Be proud of who you are!”
“What about my friends?”
The ex-dictator leans into his new apprentice.
“Fur die junge blondie gesund,” he whispers, “plane machen. [Make plans for the healthy young girl.] Der schwarze und miststuck Chinesisch lafB mich nur machen! [Leave the black man and Chinese bitch to me!]”
The red high-ceilinged barn is illuminated at night by a combination of oil lamp and moonlight filtering in through the windows. Save for the songs of the crickets, hardly anything else permeates the air. Grace, Dr. Scott, Migdalia, Keith, and Rochelle are fast asleep, snug as Muscovite rats in a heating blanket. As Silverleaf lies down in his bed of hay, Wieck enters.
“You were in the cottage a long time,” the businessman notices.
“Yeah,” the captain nodded, rubbing his chin. “Seems like it.”
Wieck takes off his shoes and lies down in a bed of hay next to Silverleaf. “What did you two talk about?” he asks his ex-passenger.
“Oh, not much,” the captain swears. “Just how hard it is surviving in this wilderness.”
“That's it?” Silverleaf laments. “The old man didn't have to snub the rest of us that way.”
“He's senile,” Wieck begs to differ. “Been here too long. You know, when you lose civilization you abandon all that is proper. I think it is best if this is our last night here.”
The businessman eyes his captain with curiosity. “Why?”
“Go to sleep.,” Wieck suggests. “We'll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Hmph!” Milton groans. “Who can sleep with everything that's happened today?”