Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

“Holding up,” Harry said.

“What choice do you have?”

“I miss her,” Harry said, feeling a heavy sadness like he might break down, took a deep breath and it calmed him.

Sam put his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “We all do. That kid was something special.”

Harry saw Phyllis and Jerry, dressed up, standing in the foyer. “Excuse me, will you?” he said to Sam, got up and went over to them. They’d never been in his house and looked nervous. “Thanks for coming,” Harry said.

“Harry, why didn’t you tell me?” Phyllis said. “I’m so sorry.” She hugged him and handed him a glass canning jar. “I made this for you. Salsa, extra spicy, the way you like it.”

He took it and put it on a table and helped Phyllis off with her coat. “Come in, have something to eat.”

Jerry shook his hand. “Harry, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I can’t stay long,” Phyllis said, out of her comfort zone, ready to leave right then if she could’ve.

“There’re no rules,” Harry said. “Go whenever you want.” He escorted them into the dining room, people moving around the table, filling their plates. “But first have something to eat.” A tall dark-haired kid with a beard and glasses with silver rims appeared next to him.

“Mr. Levin, I’m Richard Gold, friend of Sara’s.”

“She mentioned you,” Harry said.

The boyfriend. Clearly uncomfortable, palms clamped together, but it was an uncomfortable situation.

“We were going out, seeing each other,” Richard Gold said. “I was in love with her. Sara was going to introduce us the next time you came to visit.”

Richard was choked up, and Harry was too. He could hear Sam behind him firing off more jokes.

“Doctor, my leg hurts. What can I do? The doctor says: Limp!” People were laughing.

He patted Richard on the back. “I appreciate you being here. Excuse me.” He walked past him into the kitchen and there was Galina. She had just come in the door, carrying a family-size bowl of borscht and a platter of gefilte fish covered in cellophane. She put the food down on the kitchen table.

“Come here,” she said, moving toward him, hugging Harry, pulling him to her, whispering, “I can come back later, give you back rub.”

Her euphemism for going to bed with him. He hoped Aunt Netta wasn’t listening. She would have said, “Harry, no sexual relations during shiva.”

Harry said, “What happened to your boyfriend?”

“Is over,” Galina said. “The man is a schmuck.”

The idea of sex with Galina, being smothered by her massive earth-momma breasts, appealed to him. It would take the edge off, take his mind out of the funk he was in.

At 9:30, after everyone had gone, Harry went in the kitchen and made himself a vodka tonic with a slice of lime. All the leftover food had been put in the refrigerator. All the dishes and glasses and silver had been washed and put away. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day but wasn’t hungry.

Harry took his drink and went upstairs, walked in his daughter’s room, turned on the light and looked around, the room telling a lot about eighteen-year-old Sara Levin, revealing a curious blend of girl-woman. Harry sat on the bed, knowing he was never going to see her again, felt tears come down his face, staring at the posters on the walls: the Beatles in black and white, shot on a TV sound stage, could’ve been The Ed Sullivan Show, a color close-up of Jimi Hendrix playing guitar at Woodstock, Bob Dylan wearing a hat in a dark moody shot. He got up, wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeves, looking at tennis trophies on top of the bookshelves, and under the trophies books lined up: the Nancy Drew mystery series, The Sun Also Rises , Of Mice and Men , The Catcher in the Rye , and The Bell Jar . On the desk was a framed photo of Harry and Sara posing in their white judo outfits. He walked out of the room and turned off the light.

Harry was brushing his teeth when he heard the doorbell. He went downstairs, opened the front door. Galina was standing on the front porch in a raincoat on a warm August night. She came in, brushed his cheek with her palm. “Expecting rain?” Harry said, closing the door.

She started unbuttoning the coat as she walked to the stairs, took it off, draped it over the banister and walked up naked, wearing high heels.

Halfway up she turned, glanced at him and said, “You coming, Harry?”

Munich, Germany. 1942.

The key worked. Harry slid it in and unlocked the door, but someone might be living there. He rang the buzzer and waited, thinking about what he would say if the occupant came down and asked what he wanted. He moved back into the alley and looked up at the second-floor windows, the afternoon sun reflecting off the glass making it look dark.

Harry heard a truck, turned and saw a military vehicle coming toward him, stepped back to the door, turned the handle and went inside. He moved up the stairs and stood looking at the door to the house he had not seen in more than six months.

He went in and listened. Heard the faint sounds of traffic on Sendlinger Strasse. Closed the door and went into the kitchen. He opened a drawer and grabbed a paring knife with a four-inch blade. Opened cupboards and saw his parents’ glasses and dishes.

Harry went into the living room. It was their furniture, the chrome-and-leather Marcel Breuer chairs and couch, chrome-and-glass Bauhaus end tables and von Nessen lamps. Harry’s father, the BMW designer, telling him about the quality and craftsmanship of the pieces. Not that Harry had cared about such things when he was younger, but he’d listened and learned.

The Bechstein grand was across the room. His mother had played professionally until Hitler outlawed Jews from participating in the arts. His father wanted to destroy the piano after he read that Edwin Bechstein, an ardent Nazi, had given Hitler a Mercedes-Benz as a gift.

His mother had said, “Julius, pianos are not political.”

“Today,” his father had said, “everything is.”

On the wall behind him, above the mantle, was a black swastika reversed out of a circle of white on a square of red cloth, the flag of the Third Reich. Below it was his mother’s prize Doxia clock, with its silver deco numerals and hands, and frosted silver dial.

On the opposite wall was a framed photograph of Adolf Hitler, little mustache perched like a bug on his upper lip. Harry had seen him driving through Munich on numerous occasions. His parents thought Hitler was crazy and couldn’t understand why the German people had elected him. It was a nightly discussion at the dinner table until his mother would say: “Can we talk about something else?”

There was an eight-by-ten photograph in a sterling silver frame on the end table next to the couch. Harry picked it up and studied it, an SS officer posing with his wife and twin sons, the boys about Harry’s age, wearing lederhosen. They had taken over the house and everything in it.

He went to the window and watched the traffic below, cars and military vehicles passing by. He went to the third level where the bedrooms were. His parents had the big room with the bath. Harry’s room was at the opposite end of the hall, guest room in between. His room looked the same, the single bed, the six-drawer dresser, desk and bookshelves. He looked in the closet. His clothes had been replaced by light brown shirts and dark shorts of the Hitler youth, by lederhosen and other clothes he didn’t recognize.

He walked down the hall to his parents’ room. It too looked the same. The art deco armoire, the light brown furniture with black lacquered trim, the nine-drawer dresser and oval nightstands. The same deco furniture grouping in front of the fireplace where his parents sat in the winter and read. The same double bed and white chenille bedspread.