Voices of the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  There was a sliding door that opened onto a small balcony. All the apartments had them. She slid the door open and went out. She had two chairs and a table and would sit there in the evenings and watch the sun set over the city. Colette slid a chair over to the edge of the railing, stood on it and jumped half a meter over onto the Steigerwalds’ balcony. She knew they weren’t home, tried their door, it was locked. She jumped to the Dauschers, looked back and saw Hess on her balcony. She tried the door. It opened and she went in and ran through the apartment. Opened the door, looked down the empty hall, and ran for the stairs.

  Hess was wondering what she saw, what tipped her off. He didn’t go after her. She was too young, too fast. He walked into the kitchen, noticed the phone off the hook and hung it up. A light was blinking on the answering machine next to it. He pressed the message button and listened:

  “Colette, where are you? Call your mother.”

  “It’s Gunter. How are you coming on the article? Call me.”

  “It’s Harry. Meet me at Odeonsplatz at six.” This one was dated the day before.

  Now the phone was ringing. He let it ring and listened to the message: “Colette, Gunter, I was cut off. Get back to me.”

  Hess ejected the tape and put it in his pocket. He walked through the kitchen. Like the rest of the apartment, it was clean, spotless, nothing out of place. He admired the discipline required to maintain an orderly life. There was an address book on the counter. He put it in his pocket.

  Off the kitchen where he expected a pantry was a windowless room with photographic developing equipment on a long counter: enlarger, safelight, timer, a plastic tub of processing chemicals and next to it a tub of water. Half a dozen black-and-white photographs were clipped to a drying rack with clothespins.

  The photographs had been taken the night of the rally, high angles from the rear of the hall, capturing the frenzy and energy of the Blackshirts. His face peeking around the banner was featured in three of the pictures. They were extreme long shots, difficult if not impossible to identify him. There was a binder on the counter that had plastic sheets of 35 mm negatives organized in rows. There were individual photographs of the mementos locked in the drawer in his apartment, Jewvenirs, as he thought of them, items he’d taken from the Jews he’d killed. Hess was shocked they’d broken into his apartment. He took everything. But the important question—had she made a duplicate set, and sent them to her publisher?

  Harry had been in solitary confinement for two days, going crazy in the six-by-eight-foot cell that had a bunk, sink and toilet, and a barred, grime-stained window with a dim view of industrial Munich. Harry doing push-ups and sit-ups to burn off his anxiety. He’d been out once in thirty-six hours to shower and walk around a small concrete enclosure, the exercise yard, a guard standing by the door, keeping an eye on him. Harry had it to himself in the early evening, sun fading over chainlink fence topped with razor wire. The only other time Harry had been in jail was overnight in Washington DC. It was tough then and even tougher now. Not knowing what was going to happen, Harry assuming the worst, seeing himself going to trial, sentenced, doing time.

  He heard a key scrape the lock. The door opened, a guard handed him a pile of clothes and told him to get dressed. The clothes were his, pale blue shirt, navy pants, navy blazer, black shoes and belt. Whoever had gone to his hotel room had a sense of style. The guard waited while he changed, cuffed his hands and escorted him upstairs. From there a detective took him outside and put him in the backseat of an unmarked Audi sedan. Harry surprised to see Huber sitting next to him, wearing a tweed sport coat, looking over black horn rims, a large manila envelope in his hand. Huber leaned over, unlocked the cuffs, put them in his sport-coat pocket. The driver’s door opened, the detective got in behind the wheel, started the car and they took off.

  “What’s going on?” Harry said.

  “You leave Germany, I make the weapons charge disappear. This is the best offer you are going to get.”

  “What if I don’t want to leave?”

  “You go to trial. If the judge is lenient you are sentenced to three years in prison and given a fine. Tell me what you want to do.”

  “I see your point.”

  “I thought you would.”

  Huber handed Harry the envelope. Harry opened it and took out his wallet, passport and watch. He fastened the watch on his wrist. It was 3:45 p.m., Monday.

  Huber took a Pan Am ticket out of his inside sport-coat pocket and handed it to him.

  “What about my clothes?” He saw signs for the airport. Saw a plane take off, rising through the clouds, its turbines whining.

  “Your bag will be there when you arrive in Detroit.”

  “Why’re you doing this?” Huber continued to surprise him.

  “You can’t stay here stalking one of Bavaria’s leading citizens. We have bodies, yes, but nothing to connect them to Herr Hess. You may have been a witness to murder thirty years ago, but proving it is another matter.”

  “He’s going to keep doing it,” Harry said. “I hope you know that.”

  “Let me worry about it.”

  They pulled up in front of the terminal. Huber escorted Harry to the gate, showed his ID to the gate agent and walked him outside, across the tarmac to the plane, a big blue-and-white Pan Am 747, the two of them standing at the bottom of the stairway. He glanced up and saw a silver Zeppelin drifting in the clouds overhead.

  “Do not come back to Munich, Herr Levin. This time I could help you but I will not be able to again.”

  Harry walked up the gangway, and went in the plane. Showed his ticket to a stewardess and she pointed down an aisle. He was in 15A. Sitting in 15B, in the empty plane, was Cordell Sims, grinning in a claret-colored leisure suit.

  “I wondered what happened to you.” Harry took off his sport coat, folded it and put it in the overhead compartment, sat in the aisle seat. He looked out the window and saw a catering truck parked next to the plane.

  “I got to tell you, Harry, sitting in lock-up I had my doubts.”

  “You’re not alone,” Harry said.

  “And look at us now. So it’s finally over, huh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? They kicking you out of the country. How many countries you been kicked out of?”

  “Two. Both of them Germany.” Harry paused. “They couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Americans making trouble, reminding people the Nazis are still at it.”

  “But you want to stay, don’t you? Get Hess. I see it on your face. I see you sneakin’ off the plane. How they do in movies. Go through the galley while they loadin’ the food on, hide in the caterin’ truck.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Harry said.

  “Whatever you do just don’t involve me, okay?”

  “I’m not going to do anything,” Harry said. “I’m going home.” That was the truth. He felt like he was letting Sara down, but what could he do?

  People were getting on the plane now, coming down the aisles, carrying their bags, lifting them into the overhead compartments, squeezing into their seats.

  “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” Harry said.

  Cordell flashed a megawatt grin. “Get me some trim pussy, fresh gash beef. Been three months. Not like you, Harry, man about town, banging the fräuleins.”

  “One,” Harry said.

  “What happened, you all break up, or what?”

  “That’s a good question. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  He thought about Colette, had strong feelings for her, but what was going to come of it? Especially since he couldn’t come back to Munich without risking jail time.

  “Got one back home?”

  Harry grinned, picturing Galina draping her trench coat over the banister, walking up the stairs naked, turning at the last second, looking over her shoulder at him, saying, “Harry, are you coming?”

  “You do, don’t you. Harry, you old hound dog.”


  “How about you?”

  “Had five when I left. See where they at.”

  They flew to London, had a two-hour layover, and got on another plane to Detroit. Harry upgraded to first class, only saw Cordell one time when he walked up to the front of the 747 to check it out, see how the other half lived. Harry was sipping champagne, eating shrimp cocktail.

  “Looks nice up here, Harry.”

  “It’s not that good,” Harry said, trying to make him feel better.

  “No? Wanna trade seats? I’m back with the chickens and goats. Had something for supper didn’t know what it was. Could not identify it.”

  Harry didn’t see Cordell again until they landed and went through customs. They got their bags, walked outside. It was busy, crowded at 4:30 in the afternoon, cars stopping in front of the terminal to pick people up. Harry was taking everything in, happy to be home. He’d been gone eight days but it felt like a month. “You want to get together sometime, come out have dinner, give me a call. You’ve got my card, right?”

  “S&H Recycling Metals on Mt. Elliot just east of Hamtramck.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Live on Hendrie in Huntington Woods,” Cordell said.

  “What if I want to reach you?”

  “Yeah, for what?”

  “Who knows,” Harry said.

  “Don’t know my mom’s still in the house, or if the house still there. Better let me do the contacting.”

  Harry offered his hand and Cordell shook it. “Till we meet again.”

  “Be cool,” Cordell said, hoisting his duffel up on his shoulder. He crossed the street, heading for a bus that had just pulled up.

  Bergheim, Austria. 1971.

  Colette had run out the rear door of the apartment building, got in her car and drove 150 kilometers south out of Munich her mother’s chalet in Bergheim, arriving Monday evening at 6:45. Colette knocked on the door. Gretchen Rizik opened it, screamed, and hugged her for five minutes saying, “It is so good to see you. I can’t believe you are here.” Colette told her she had a couple days off and wanted to surprise her. Didn’t mention Hess or what happened in Munich. Why scare her mother, make her worry? She would stay in Austria and lie low until the article appeared. Colette had mailed everything to Gunter on her way out of town.

  When they were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner—Wiener schnitzel, roast potatoes and sauerkraut—Colette told her mother about Harry. “He’s American, born in Munich.”

  “How did you meet?” Her mother excited, dying to know all the details.

  “I interviewed him for the story I just wrote.”

  “How romantic,” Gretchen said, holding up a forkful of sauerkraut but too busy talking to eat. “What is his name?”

  “Harry Levin.”

  “That’s a good German name. How old is he?”

  “Forty-three, but seems younger,” Colette said. “Eat your dinner.”

  “The food can wait, this is more important. What does he look like?”

  “Handsome, mother. He has dark hair, good shoulders, and he’s about this much taller than me.” She raised her hand a few inches over her head. “He’s a Holocaust survivor. Escaped from Dachau when he was fourteen.”

  “He is a Jew?”

  “Yes, a Jew. Is that all right? You married an Arab.”

  “Of course. Is he rich?” Her mother smiled and ate the forkful of sauerkraut, finally.

  “I didn’t ask.” Colette cut a piece of schnitzel. “The only problem is I’m here, he’s in Detroit.” Bernd had phoned her late morning to say Harry was going to be released in a few hours and deported.

  Her mother finished chewing and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “When are you going to visit him?”

  “When he invites me.”

  “He makes you happy. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Her mother had purchased the chalet after the war, one of the thousands of refugees fleeing Germany. Her father had been a successful importer. He had left enough money, if invested properly, for Colette and her mother to live comfortably the rest of their lives. The chalet was three kilometers outside Bergheim, built on a hill with a northern view of the Bavarian Alps.

  In the morning, Colette went to the village to buy groceries. She was going to make her mother spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. She walked out of the market and put her grocery bag on the front passenger seat. Drove out of the village and saw the Basilica of Maria Plain, with its black onion-domed spires against brilliant blue sky. She crossed the bridge over the Salzach and wound through the rolling hills.

  Colette could see her mother’s house perched on a hill from a kilometer away, snow-capped peaks rising up behind it. There was a dark Audi sedan parked in front of the chalet as she made her way up the long gravel road.

  She parked and got out with the groceries, went inside and put the bag on the antique wooden table in the kitchen.

  Rausch was sitting with Frau Rizik, talking and drinking coffee when he saw a dark-green VW drive up, then heard someone in the kitchen.

  “Colette has returned. Dear, there is someone I want you to meet.”

  Just then, a younger, more attractive version of the mother came in the room. Rausch stood. Tried to hold back the smile.

  “Colette, this is Herr Zundel. He was in the Heer with your father.”

  “How do you do,” he said. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She stopped ten feet from him, seemed hesitant to come any closer. Hess had supplied the background on the father. He had been a lieutenant in the Heer, killed on the Eastern Front. “Your father was a brave man and a good soldier,” Rausch said. “It was an honor to serve with him.”

  “Dear, come in and join us.”

  “In a minute,” Colette said. “Excuse me. I will be right back.”

  She walked out of the room, seemed anxious to leave. Did she suspect something?

  “Colette is a journalist,” Frau Rizik said. “Works for Der Spiegel.”

  “Ahh, Der Spiegel, our most respected magazine. Impressive. She must be very good.”

  “I have all her articles. Would you like to see them?”

  Colette had seen him somewhere, she was sure of it. And then he appeared like a snapshot in her head: getting out of the Mercedes in front of Hess’ apartment building. He was the bodyguard.

  She went through the kitchen and up the stairs to her mother’s room, saw the city of Salzburg spread out through the picture window. On a shelf in the closet was a gray metal box. She opened it, slid her father’s military sidearm out of a worn leather holster, remembering her mother had shown it to her years ago, saying she felt safer having it because she was living alone. Colette ejected the magazine, filled with bullets and snapped it back in.

  She went down the stairs, the gun hidden behind her back, walked into the salon. They were gone. She looked out the rear windows and saw them on the deck, her mother pointing to the mountains. Probably telling him where she skied. Colette sat on the couch, holding the Luger under a pillow in her lap.

  They came back in a few minutes later. Her mother saw her and smiled.

  “So you decided to join us. I was just telling Herr Zundel your first article about the Berlin Wall won an award.”

  Colette said, “His name isn’t Herr Zundel. He wasn’t in the Heer with Father. He’s a Nazi.” She stood, pointing the gun at his chest fifteen feet away, nervous, trying to keep her hands steady.

  “I am nothing of the sort,” the Nazi said. “Put the weapon down, please. I have papers in the car that will prove what I am saying is the truth.”

  She saw his right hand slide inside his jacket. “Keep your hands where I can see them. I am nervous. I don’t want to shoot you, but believe me I will.” She glanced at her mother, who seemed frozen. “Call the police.”

  “You are making a mistake,” the Nazi said.

  “Dear, what are you doing?”

  “He came here to kill us.”

  He smiled. “
I will show you my identification.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them. Mother, call the police.” This time she raised her voice.

  Gretchen Rizik moved toward the kitchen, keeping her distance from the Nazi. But he lunged at her, got his arm around her neck, hand going into the jacket, coming out with a matte-black gun which he pressed against her cheek.

  “Put down the weapon,” he said.

  Colette had to do something, and do it fast. Focused on the bodyguard’s big foot in a brown leather shoe, aimed at it—hands shaking, squeezed the trigger, the Luger jumping, her ears ringing. The Nazi was hobbling now, trying to stay on his feet, firing, her mother moving left, diving for the couch, Colette moving left, aiming at his chest, squeezing the trigger. The Nazi going backward, looking at her, trying to raise the gun and then he was on the floor.

  Colette kicked the pistol out of his hand, but he was dead, eyes staring up at the ceiling. She searched him and found his billfold, opened it and took out his driver’s license. His name was Arno Rausch, fifty-one, a Munich address. What was she going to do with him? Saw herself putting him in the trunk of his car and driving it into the Wallersee, a lake not far to the north.

  Her mother was sitting on the couch. She didn’t look good, face drained of color. “Are you all right?” Colette laid her down on the couch, tried to make her comfortable. “You’re going to be okay,” Colette said, wondering if she’d had a heart attack. She got up and called an ambulance.

  Detroit, Michigan. 1971.

  First thing Harry did when he got home, he mixed a drink, bourbon and soda, sat at the kitchen table, listening to the messages on his answering machine, skipping through them until he heard Colette’s voice.

  “I have been so worried about you. My friend with the police told me what happened. I tried to visit but they would not let me see you. I am staying with my mother in Bergheim. Call me as soon as you can. I miss you.”