1947
Inside the brick red clapboard-clad colonial located at 44 Fair Street, Nantucket, Hans Landa nervously paced the floor of his study. He stopped to stare out the window and realized that the sun had already set, and that meant he'd spent the better part of eight hours waiting for his telephone to ring.
His stomach had twisted into knots, and he was jittery despite not being able to bring himself to drink even a single cup of coffee since early that morning. Hans Landa was normally as unflappable as they came, but the events of the past several days had virtually turned his life upside down.
Hans let out a defeated sigh as his gaze fell onto the black telephone sitting idly on the desk in front of him. He fought the urge to hurl the phone through the window and turned his attention to the garden just outside.
Harvest was in full swing, and he had found himself with a bounty of fruits and vegetables that he had cultivated with his own two hands. Hans was quite proud of what he'd done—only just the year before, he somehow managed to kill every single plant in the garden. Since his arrival on the island almost two years before, gardening had become one of his favorite ways to unwind. He had been a bit of a recluse from the moment he set foot on American soil. Hans was painfully self-conscious about the offensive scar on his forehead, and everywhere he went, he was met with judging stares. He locked himself away in his house, read books, and drank alone for months until he realized he needed to get his life together and make lemonade with lemons so to speak.
Hans joined many of the social clubs on the island and soon found himself surrounded with friends who shared his interests in literature, languages, and gourmet dining. He had somehow made all of them believe that he was an innocent victim, having had the swastika carved into his face by a group of young men upon his arrival in the States.
It was at a meeting of the local literary club that Hans was introduced to a young writer named Charlotte Redman. She was an auburn-haired beauty with creamy, freckled skin and soft brown eyes. She spoke with a slow, Southern lilt that always seemed to put him at ease. She was nearly twenty years his junior, but it came as no surprise when nine months later, he realized he was entirely smitten. He asked for her hand in marriage not long later. At nearly fifty, Hans was ecstatic that he had finally found someone to share his life with.
He was supposed to marry Charlotte at the Old South Church that late summer day, joined by nearly one hundred of their closest family, friends, and colleagues.
The telephone jingled loudly, jolting Hans back into the present. He immediately grabbed the receiver and barked out an impatient greeting.
"Mr. Landa, this is Sergeant Morris." Morris spoke with a heavy Boston accent, something Hans often struggled with. "We went out to Miss Redman's house and found everything to be in order."
"Everything can't be in order! She is missing, gone, nowhere to be found! I haven't seen her in two days."
"Her roommate says she packed a suitcase and left in her car on Thursday morning. Didn't say where she was going."
"That can't be true! We are supposed to be married in one hour!" Hans spat.
"Listen, Mr. Landa, maybe she got cold feet, you know?"
Hans raked a hand through his hair. He dropped into the overstuffed chair behind his desk and slumped back. "So that's it? She's gone, but you have no idea where she went?"
"Sorry," the Sergeant said.
"Thank you," Hans said before dropping the phone back onto the cradle.
He knew why she might have gone, but he had no idea where.
. . .
One thousand miles southwest of Nantucket, Charlotte Redman crossed the border into Tennessee behind the wheel of her 1946 Chevy Fleetmaster.