Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

“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.