Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

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.