Voices of the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  They had walked a couple of blocks, hailed a cab and took it to Harry’s hotel. They entered from the rear side, boosted themselves up on the loading dock, walked through the stockroom, moving past floor-to-ceiling shelves. Saw a couple of maids filling their carts with room supplies. No one said anything or seemed to notice them.

  He turned a light on when they walked in the suite, Cordell trailing behind, wide-eyed, looking around the living room. Harry pointed to a cabinet under the TV. “Help yourself to the mini-bar. I think it has Courvoisier and I know it’s got Coke.” He sat on the couch, watching Cordell open the cabinet, staring at all the bottles: soft drinks, water, juice, beer, and little airline bottles of whisky, vodka, gin, and assorted liqueurs. Cordell turned and looked at him.

  “Want something, Harry?”

  “Scotch and soda.”

  “Dewar’s cool?”

  Harry nodded. Cordell mixed the drinks in heavy lowball glasses, came over and handed him his Scotch and he took a sip. “Perfect.” He looked at his watch. 5:15. “I’ve got to make a few calls,” he said to Cordell. “Relax, turn on the TV. You can watch Hogan’s Heroes in German. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

  He walked in with his drink, sat on the bed, put his glass on the end table, picked up the phone and called Colette, assumed she’d be back from Nuremberg by now, but got her answering machine. “It’s Harry. Meet me at Odeonsplatz at 6:00.” He’d tell her what happened later.

  Next he dialed the operator. Although he had never talked to her he felt an obligation to call Joyce, tell her what had happened. He asked for a US operator and then a listing in Palm Beach, Florida for Joyce Cantor. There was a J. Cantor but the number was unlisted. Harry told the operator it was an emergency and she told him to call the police.

  His second call was to Lisa’s partners, Irena and Leon. Harry tried the number, let it ring ten times and hung up. He went in the closet, opened the safe, picked up his passport, and slid it in his shirt pocket. He grabbed the extra ammunition, took out the Colt, opened the cylinder, ejected the spent shell casings and loaded three rounds in the empty chambers. He snapped the cylinder back in position, slid the gun in the waistband of his khakis behind his back. He went in the bathroom, threw the spent casings in the toilet and flushed it.

  Hess stood in front of the house at 64 Kaulbachstrasse at 4:52 p.m., holding the package under his right arm. He rang the buzzer and waited, brushed dandruff off the shoulder of the uniform, looked at his reflection in the glass, adjusted the cap, straightened it over his face.

  A woman’s voice said, “Who is it?” She spoke with a pronounced Polish accent.

  “The postman.” He liked saying it, thinking of himself as a common man everyone trusted. “Special delivery for Herr Lukiski.”

  “He is not expecting anything. Who is it from?”

  “The name is Martz, a Munich address.”

  “What would Lisa be sending him?”

  “Fräulein, I have no idea.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m thinking out loud. Leon is in the shower and I am cooking dinner. Will you leave it inside the door, please.”

  Hess found it interesting she would offer this information about what they were doing. It was because he was the postman. She trusted him. “No, I am sorry, you have to sign for it.”

  “Can you bring it up?”

  That was what he was hoping she would ask. “Yes, of course.”

  She buzzed him in and he walked up the narrow staircase. She was standing in the doorway when he reached the top, an attractive woman with blonde hair, wearing an apron over a dark skirt and white blouse. He could smell onions cooking, he could hear music. Hess gave her an avuncular smile. Now he could hear a phone ringing somewhere inside. She glanced back but made no move to answer it.

  “You are working late,” Irena Pronicheva said.

  “The packages must be delivered.” It sounded like something a friendly postman would say. He was surprised the Jews were still so gullible after all that had happened to them. It was difficult to comprehend.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  He patted his shirt pocket. “No, I’m sorry. Someone on my route forgot to give it back.”

  “I will get one, please come in.

  He stood just inside the flat, watched her walk into another room and disappear before closing the door. If she recognized him Hess saw no sign of it. The grilled onion smell was stronger and it made him hungry. The music was Mozart, good old Wolfie, his opera Don Giovanni. He wondered if the average postman could distinguish one Mozart opera from another. He glanced around. A framed Picasso print over the fireplace mantel caught his eye, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, from his proto-Cubist period. These Polish Jews were surprisingly cultured.

  When she came back in the room his arms were raised, fingers pointed up as if conducting the orchestra, a nice touch for a postman.

  “So you enjoy Mozart, I see.”

  He brought his arms down to his sides. “Very much.”

  “My favorite opera is Die Entführung aus dem Serail,” she said smiling, animated now.

  “I can understand why.”

  “I have a pen,” she said, holding it up, showing it to him.

  “Herr Lukiski must sign. The package is addressed to him.”

  She turned toward the darkness of the other rooms. “Leon, you have to sign for it.”

  Hess said, “Something smells like it is burning.”

  She swore in Polish. “Excuse me.”

  She turned and moved into the kitchen. He heard her shake a skillet on the stovetop. He shifted the package from his right arm to his left, and saw a man coming toward him from another room. Lukiski was big, bearish, long dark hair still wet from the shower and a full beard. Hess was surprised‚ expected someone more handsome and fit to be living with such an attractive woman. The idea of it annoyed him.

  “For me, are you sure? What would Lisa possibly be sending?” He seemed to sniff the air. “Irena, something is burning.”

  From the kitchen she said, “I am taking care of it.”

  Lukiski glanced at him. “Where do I sign?”

  “Right here.” Hess pointed to the signature line.

  He signed his name and Hess handed him the package. The woman came in from the kitchen as he was shaking it.

  “Leon, what is it?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Open it, will you.” She glanced at Hess. “Thank you very much. We won’t keep you.”

  He drew the Luger from under his jacket. “I can’t leave just yet. I must ask you some questions.”

  The phone rang. The woman looked over at it on the table next to the couch.

  “What is this about?” Lukiski said.

  “The witness,” Hess said. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?”

  He brought a desk chair in from the bedroom, sitting with his legs crossed, Luger resting in his lap. He was looking at their backs, the two of them kneeling in front of him on the white tile floor, facing the tub. She was even more attractive without clothes, flawless white skin, and red nipples. Leon was short-limbed, covered with hair and looked to Hess like photographs he had seen of early man.

  “Why are you doing this?” Her tiny voice echoed off the tile.

  He was tying up loose ends. She turned her head, trying to look at him. They all did. In the face of death they did whatever they had to do to survive. “Turn your head back. Look straight.” It had always been more difficult to kill someone who was looking at you. It became too personal if you were making eye contact. It threw off your concentration. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Hess,” Irena Pronicheva said, voice accusatory. “I thought you looked familiar when I saw you come up the stairs but the uniform fooled me.”

  “Where is the woman, the survivor?” He knew she lived in Palm Beach, Florida, but not her address. He had gone through some of the confiscated files from the ZOB. He had listened to the illuminating conversation between Lisa Martz and Frau
Cantor, the American Jewess explaining how they were going to prosecute that Nazi murderer and bring him to justice.

  He was surprised to learn that five Jews had dug their way out of the mass grave. It did not speak well of their skill as marksmen. But there had been extenuating circumstances. Half of his men were drunk on schnapps. He should have waited until the job was finished before passing out the bottles, but the mass killings had disturbed a number of them, some became physically ill.

  They had caught and shot three survivors the next morning, during the Jew hunt. He remembered finding the little kikes, thinking they had escaped and then realizing they were going to die. Seeing that had been one of his more pleasurable memories of Dachau.

  And now, if he could believe what Rausch had told him about Harry Levin, there was only one witness left, and of course the journalist.

  “Tell me about Frau Cantor. How did she survive?”

  “A farmer took her in.”

  A traitor, Hess was thinking.

  “She lived within a few kilometers of Dachau until the war ended.”

  Unbelievable. He had probably visited the farm, talked to the farmer. “Do you, by chance, know his name?”

  “I do not.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “No.”

  They were both moving, trying to ease the pressure on their knees. “I know you are uncomfortable. It will not be much longer.”

  “What do you have against us? The war ended twenty-seven years ago. We were not even born.”

  It was more complicated than that. But he wasn’t going to try to explain it. He raised the Luger, aimed at the back of Leon Lukiski’s head and felt a rush of adrenalin.

  It was still pumping ten minutes later. He could feel his heart bouncing in his chest. Nothing like this pure high, this surge of power, fingers shaking as he wiped the blood off Leon’s eyeglasses and slid them in his shirt pocket. He found a bottle of schnapps in a cabinet in the kitchen, poured a glass and drank it, trying to calm down.

  Harry called the valet and asked to have his car brought up and driven to a gaststätte down the street. He wasn’t taking any chances. There was a sizable tip in it for someone. He and Cordell took the elevator down, walked out through the stockroom and down an alley. They came out on Königsplatz a block from the hotel. He scanned the street, didn’t see any Blackshirts hanging around. They walked down to the beer garden and met the valet in the parking lot. Harry gave him twenty-five Deutschmarks and they got in the car.

  “Harry, that was some slick shit. You like a spy or something?”

  “Looking out for you,” Harry said.

  “Since when?” Cordell flashed a smile. “No offense, Harry, but I’ve got to get away from you.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Harry said.

  “Always tell it like it is, don’t you?” Cordell grinned. “Don’t get me wrong, you cool, but you bad luck.”

  “I can’t disagree with you,” Harry said.

  He drove to Odeonsplatz, parked and waited. It was 5:50 p.m. “I told Colette to meet us here.”

  At 6:15 Cordell said, “I don’t think she got the message.”

  “She may not be back yet,” Harry said. “I’m going to try her again.” He could see a familiar yellow phone booth across the plaza. He opened the door and got out of the car.

  Harry dialed Colette’s number, got her answering machine again and hung up. He called the hotel, asked if he had any messages. Nothing. Went back to the car and got in.

  “What’s up?”

  “Colette still isn’t there.”

  “Try her later.”

  He drove to 64 Kaulbachstrasse, a tree-lined street in a university neighborhood, slowed down, pulled over and parked.

  “What’s this?”

  “I have to stop here and see someone. It’ll just take a few minutes.” Harry glanced across the front seat at him. “Want to come with me?”

  “Think I’ll wait here.”

  Irena and Leon were in 2A, the upper floor of an old house. He stood at the door, pressed the buzzer. It didn’t make a sound and he wondered if it was working. He tried the door. It was closed but not all the way. He pushed it open. The foyer was dark. He turned on a light and walked up the stairs. It reminded him of his parents’ house, stucco walls, wood beam ceiling, simple architecture. He knocked on the door. “Irena, it’s Harry Levin.” He waited. Tried the handle, the door opened. He walked in, stood in the living room, faint smell of sautéed onions. “Anyone home?” The stereo was turned on but no music was playing.

  He went in the kitchen, saw a frying pan on the stovetop, overcooked onions stuck to the bottom. He went back through the living room, down a hallway, wood floor, into a bedroom, green carpet, double bed, framed prints on stucco walls, TV on a pedestal table at the foot of the bed.

  The bathroom door was closed halfway. He didn’t want to barge in if she was taking a bath. “Irena, it’s Harry Levin.” As he got closer he could see a stream of blood on the white tile floor. He took another step, saw feet and legs, the naked bodies of Leon and Irena. He drew the Colt, cocked the hammer and went in. The tub and surrounding walls and ceiling were spattered with blood. He studied the scene, bodies positioned the way Martz and Lisa were, two shell casings on the white tile, lingering odor of dead meat, like the smell of a butcher shop. He heard footsteps in the hall behind him.

  “Don’t move,” a voice said in German.

  Harry looked over his shoulder at two Munich police officers, guns drawn, aimed at him.

  “Place your weapon on the floor.”

  Harry bent down, laid the Colt on the white tile.

  “Place your hands on your head.”

  Harry did, and one of the cops approached him, kicked his gun skidding across the floor, and cuffed his hands behind his back. The two cops escorted him through the apartment, down the stairs and out the door. Almost dark, sun fading, red highlights over the rooftops. There were two patrol cars parked on the street and more uniformed police standing in the yard. A crowd from the neighborhood had gathered, people staring at Harry as he came out. He walked past the first patrol car and saw Cordell in the backseat. Their eyes met, Cordell shook his head.

  “You have a gun,” Huber said.

  “I better,” Harry said. “The way things have been going.”

  “Do you know the penalty for carrying a concealed weapon in Germany?”

  They were in an interrogation room, Huber sitting to his right, putting on his glasses, blank expression.

  “We will come back to this. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  “I was visiting friends,” Harry said, stretching the truth a little.

  “The people you visit do not seem to live very long.” Eyes looking at him over the black frames of the glasses.

  “They were dead when I found them.”

  Huber said, “Who do you think is killing these people?”

  Harry didn’t know if he could trust him, didn’t know how much to tell him. Huber could have been a Nazi sympathizer for all he knew. “If I tell you, you won’t believe it.”

  “The situation you are in, I think you had better.”

  “Ernst Hess,” Harry said, letting the name hang. Huber kept his eyes on him, brow furrowed, serious, and then a hint of a smile. More emotion than Harry had ever seen from him. “He’s trying to cover up what he did during the war.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Harry told him.

  “If this were true,” Huber said, “why was he not prosecuted?”

  “There were no witnesses,” Harry said.

  “But now you have come forward.” He paused. “You make these accusations. What proof do you have?”

  “Go to the morgue,” Harry said. “The bodies are piling up. A few days ago you found an auto dealer and his wife, the Lachmanns, shot the same way as the others, but you haven’t connected the dots.”

  “Maybe the dots lead to you.”

&n
bsp; Colette got back to her apartment at 6:30 Saturday evening, listened to Harry’s message. She went to Odeonsplatz to meet him, arriving at 6:45. Walked around, didn’t see him. Tried his hotel from the pay phone. He didn’t answer. She went back to her apartment, checked her messages again, nothing from Harry. She called his hotel and left a message. Maybe he was out with his friend.

  She tried him again first thing in the morning. He was still checked in but didn’t answer. Now Colette was worried. She phoned Bernd Kramer, her contact with the police, and found out Harry was in custody at Stadelheim. Arrested for carrying a concealed weapon, awaiting arraignment.

  Monday afternoon, Colette was on the phone with her editor, Gunter, in Berlin, discussing the risks of running her story about Hess. “You’ll get the photos and the article on Wednesday. Incriminating stuff. This should put a wrench in Hess’ political future.”

  “I’m more concerned about your future as a journalist. Hess is popular, well liked. There will be a backlash. You could be a target. I’m not even sure Max will agree to publish it.”

  “Can you hang on?” Colette said. “Someone is ringing the bell.” She put the phone down, crossed the living room and looked out the window, saw him and went back to the phone. “Gunter, just a minute, the postman is delivering a package.” She buzzed him in and opened the door. Heard him coming up the stairs. “Thank you so much,” Colette said as he approached, face partially hidden under the brim of the cap. He was carrying a small rectangular package, his shoes making a snapping sound on the tile floor.

  She was wondering who it was from, glanced at the label on the box. “Der Spiegel.”

  He looked at her and said, “The magazine?”

  “I am a journalist.”

  “You have to sign.” He patted his shirt pocket and the front of his uniform jacket. “Forgive me, I have misplaced my pen.”

  She noticed his manicured nails and shoes, hand-made black leather like Max wore, her editor-in-chief in Berlin, the shoes contrasting the plainness of the uniform. “I’ll be right back.” She walked quickly through the apartment, glanced at the phone on the table, Gunter still on the line, went into her bedroom, closed the door and locked it. Knew she had only a minute or two before Hess came after her. The photos from the rally were in an envelope on her desk, Colette regretting now she hadn’t sent them earlier. She tucked the envelope in her purse, grabbed her passport.